Pax Robotica: Genesis (Part 2)

The name “Sophia” seemed to have had heighten the young woman’s interest. She looked at Bane more intensely for a brief moment and the reached out to touch his arm. His body shuddered slightly, as if an electric current had passed through it. There was a barely perceptible expression of disgust on his face.

 

A couple of seconds later he continued, “Sophia greeted me in a navy blazer worn over a very light cream color long-sleeved shirt and a pair of matching navy pants.  Even that conservative outfit did very little to conceal the beautiful, slim, and firm body that I had known so well. I could see her full, perky breasts swelling against the buttoned blazer. The curves of her lower body pressed demurely but provocatively against her exquisitely tailored pants, seemingly inviting another intimate exploration. I had been thinking to do just that during my consultation with Billy Wayne.”

 

We all looked at the young woman and wondered if she was Sophia. Bane continued, “Sophia was naturally radiant and she knew it. She almost never put makeup on her perfectly proportionate, delicate oval face. She often wore her luscious, un-styled shoulder-length hair in a loose pony tail, which gave her the classic, easy elegance that most women, even those who were born rich, couldn’t pull off.

“Sophia and I arrived at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, half an hour later. I love the MFA. It’s one of the world's most beautiful and comprehensive art museums with nearly four hundred and fifty thousand works of art ranging from ancient Egyptian to contemporary. It was also my childhood favorite.

“The MFA moved to its current home on Huntington Avenue in 1909. This section of the Museum has a neoclassical design, which features the imposing 500-foot cut granite façade along Huntington Avenue, through which Sophia and I entered.

“‘Let’s walk around for a while,’ Sophia suggested, “It’s too early eat lunch here but too late to go anywhere else for a decent lunch and still get back in time for my appointment.

“We walked to the second wing of the Museum. This is the one that houses the painting galleries. We wandered erratically from the Decorative Arts Wing to the Norma Jean Calderwood Garden Court and Terrace, and to the Linde Family Wing for Contemporary Art, and then to the Art of the Americas Wing, which features arts from North, South, and Central America. I wasn’t studying the works of art too carefully; I had known most of them by heart since childhood.

“Eventually we ended up at the Asia, Oceania, and Africa arts section. Sophia seemed to get more melancholic as time went on.

“‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

“‘Seeing all these Chinese cultural artifacts reminds me of what happened to my family,’ Sophia paused as if to gather her thoughts, ‘My grandfather came from a long line of scholar-gentry. He had been a professor of classical Chinese literature at Beijing University when Mao initiated his brutally murderous Cultural Revolution in 1966.

“‘My grandfather refused to flee his hometown when the Communist took over. He had too much dignity to flee from the peasants and he did not want go to Taiwan with the corrupted, incompetent nationalist government. He continued to teach Chinese classical literature in the same dignified manner as before, albeit at a much-reduced circumstance. It turned out to be a fatal mistake.

“‘Two months after Mao’s Cultural Revolution began he was denounced by some of his own students—his own students—as being a pillar of the old culture,’ Sophia’s voice grew noticeably harsher.

“‘The next day a mob of Communist soldiers, peasants, and his old students came to his classroom while he was teaching. A soldier smashed my grandfather’s head with the butt of an AK 47 in front of his terrified students. The mob then dragged him unconscious out of the classroom, poured a pail of cold water to revive him, and made him kneel on the ground and confess his sins against the revolution and against the people of China.

“‘When my grandfather couldn’t think of anything else to say, another soldier-peasant, a mere peasant until two years before, someone who had lived in the neighbourhood, and who would later be known as the Butcher of Beijing and went on to become Mao’s chief henchman until Mao’s death, casually pointed the muzzle of his AK 47 to the back of my grandfather’s head and said, ‘For the new People’s Republic of China, and for all the humiliations and injustices my family and yours had to endure at the hands of the elite,’ and pulled the trigger. The mob cheered and then shouted out the names of the next intended victims. They randomly picked out a name, which happened to belong to the man shouting the loudest.

“‘Hungry stray dogs devoured his body after the mob had dragged its next victim to a different location.

“‘A small group of men who used to be my grandfather’s guards led my grandmother, my father, who was barely a teenager at that time, and his siblings on a desperate journey to Hong Kong that very evening, before the mob could get to them.

“‘My father and the guards wowed vengeance—so would my brother years later, but first they had to survive in the new land. The guards joined the criminal underworld in order to survive and find recruits who would one day help liberate China from the Communists. They made sure that my father and his siblings stay clean so one day they could lead their revolution.

“‘With the help and protection of the guards, my family prospered as entrepreneurs in Hong Kong. We founded The Song Foundation for Chinese Cultural Heritage, and worked day and night to preserve the remnants of our glorious culture. Our relationship with the guards evolved into something highly symbiotic: the guards offered us protection while we offered them hope of redemption and the illusion of respectability of fighting for something higher than petty criminal profits.’

“Sophia continued, somewhat less harshly and more proudly, ‘A few decades later the Song Foundation opened a small museum and used it as its headquarter. Over the years the Foundation managed to acquire a sizable collection of Chinese cultural artifacts from mainland refugees and foreign collectors.

“‘I became the executive director of the Foundation after getting my art history degree from Oxford. In that capacity I had been travelling around the globe to visit world class museums and cultural institutes in order to learn the best techniques to manage our Foundation.

“‘If I die, if my brother and I die before China got rid of Communism, I would want our museum relocated the America to be safe until a free China is ready to take it back,’ Sophia said dreamily, as if to herself.

“We continued to wander in silence. Sophia seemed to be lost in her thoughts. Finally she said, ‘Let’s have lunch, I’m famished.’

“‘I know where to get a decent lunch.’ I took Sophia’s hand and led her back to the Linde Family Wing for Contemporary Art, up to the second floor, and into Bravo, my favorite restaurant at the MFA.

“We were led to my favorite table. Sophia ordered roasted Atlantic salmon and I ordered citrus roasted chicken and a bottle of oaked Chardonnay. She talked passionately about China’s glorious cultural heritage. Then we talked about what was going on in the art world while we ate.

“After lunch I accompanied Sophia to the director’s office and then went back to my car to get my laptop. I went to Harvard’s Countway Library of Medicine to work on my paper on geopolitics.

“Sophia came to the library two hours later to look for me. ‘I don’t want to go back to your apartment just yet.’

“‘We could go to see Boston Symphony Chamber Players with Jean-Yves Thibaudet, if you like.’

“‘That’s not a bad idea.’

“‘I could call Boston home. I could love America as much as I love China for the children’s sake.’

“‘I know you could,’ I wondered what it would be like to be a married man for the first time in my life.

“The show at the Boston Symphony Orchestra was better than I had expected. Sophia did not want to stay inside when we got back to my apartment.

“‘As much as I enjoy being in a room with a gorgeous man let’s go for a walk in the Boston Common.’

“Sophia saw a hint of disappointment in my eyes. She smiled seductively and said, ‘I’ll make it up for you. Promise.’

“‘So you promised you’ll be in position to do that?’

“‘You wicked, wicked man,’ Sophia laughed. ‘I’ll be in any position you’d like.’”

 “Sophia and I entered the Common via the gate across the street from the State House. We strolled leisurely through the park, up to Charles Street, and crossed into the Public Gardens. Sophia’s brightened when she saw children joyfully but orderly waited for their turns to get on the swan boats.

“‘Lovely children, aren’t they?’

“I nodded my head; I couldn’t think of a better response.”

“By the time we got back to my apartment dinner was ready. My personal chef was the same one who had been preparing my meals since I was a child. She was an excellent, innovative chef and she loved me because I was an adventurous eater—I still am, always up to anything, especially ethnic-inspired dishes. Her book, ‘Cooking for Professor William Bane,’ had been on the New York Times best seller list for months.

“She was serving a three-course dinner. The first course was Vietnamese-inspired rice paper spring rolls of raw salmon served on a rectangular bamboo plate and Champagne. The Champagne would also go well with the second course of duck liver pâté and caviar on sliced French baguette, served on a white round ceramic plate.

“The entrée was magret de canard, a French duck breast dish. The meat was served in medium slices, slightly pink inside, arranged artfully on two white oval ceramic plates. I selected a bottle of red Burgundy from my wine rack. ‘This will have to do,’ I said to myself.

“Mary the chef bid goodbye and left my apartment. Sophia and I talked about the Boston Common, the Public Gardens, but mostly about nothing of importance while we ate. Sophia helped me load the dishes onto the dishwashers afterward. When they were done she whispered into my ear, ‘This is a lovely domestic scene. Not bad, not bad at all. I could live like this.’

“‘I’d like to explore your position on that,’ I answered in my mock professorial tone.

“‘You may explore as much as you’d like, and I’ll do some exploring of my own. You’re not the only one who enjoys carnal explorations, Professor Bane,’ Sophia replied. She took my hand, kissed me, and led me into the bedroom.”

“The next morning Sophia and I woke up at seven. We showered together, had a quickie in the bathroom, and got dressed.

“A breakfast consisting of authentic French croissants, fruits, and two cups of Vietnamese style coffee was already waiting for us on the kitchen table. Each cup contained about a third of an inch of condensed milk and had a stainless coffee filter on it. The filter allowed the coffee to drip into the cup several drops at a time. Once the desired amount of coffee had accumulated in the cup, I removed the filters and placed them on top of their respective lids, which doubled as drip catchers, and handed a cup to Sophia, who began to stir it gently.

“I stirred my coffee just as gently. I brought the cup to my mouth, carefully took a small sip, and savored the smooth, strong, sweet, aromatic coffee that was much richer than the American version, ‘Delicious! I think Mary is in her French and Vietnamese mode.’

“‘How many modes does she have?’

“‘I don’t know. She comes up with new combinations all the time. This is one of her most reliable and conservative modes, actually. Say what you will about the French and the Vietnamese, but they do know how to make foods and drinks. Sometimes I get the feeling that Mary throws two darts at the world map each morning and cooks me a meal that combines the dishes selected from cuisines of the two countries on which the darts land.’

“‘Interesting.’

“‘I can’t complain, can I?’

“At 8:15 we went out of my apartment and into the waiting taxi. Our trip to Logan Airport was uneventful. Sophia barely said anything during the trip; she was contented to be by my side while my mind wandered to the places I wanted to take her to.”