5 Trials of the Mind: Bayo's Test and Dr. John's Gambit
Chapter 5
Trials of the Mind: Bayo's Test and Dr. John's Gambit
By 11:30, Bayo arrived at 79 Garden Street. It was a blend of academic and residential buildings. After spinning around full circle, searching for his bearings, he finally spotted the Harvard Yard and the Harvard Art Museum.
Harvard Yard was a lush haven with venerable structures, hosting first-year students and archives of wisdom. Bayo thought living there was too scary. The Harvard Art Museum had three museums: The Fogg, the Busch-Reisinger, and the Sackler. The Fogg, with its Georgian style, was near Harvard Yard.
Harvard's computing laboratory was housed in a sturdy two-story brick building, proudly displaying a sign that read "Harvard Computing Laboratory" on its front facade.
Filled with urgency, Bayo dashed towards the entrance as if racing against time. Just as he reached the front of the building, a vigilant white security guard intercepted him. Without wasting a moment, Bayo swiftly presented the professional card given to him by Dr. John. Although the security guard wore a disapproving frown, he reluctantly granted Bayo access.
Bayo stepped inside, eyes darting around, taking in the bustling activity. He soon realized that a mysterious machine he had never seen before occupied the entire first floor. As he ascended to the second floor, he discovered a series of partitioned offices. But what drew Bayo's eye the most was the grim look on Dr. John's face, stirring up his curiosity and unease.
Dr. John's team was well aware of his mission to find someone, and he had even discussed it with the management. But Bayo had either snubbed or delayed his first crucial research. It had strained Dr. John, as Dr. Harold Arthur, or Dr. Harold for short, was harsh in his criticism of Dr. John's shortcomings.
Unlike Dr. John, who hailed from Rockland, Dr. Harold was from Maine, specifically Portland.
Although Portland was the economic hub of Maine, Dr. Harold's family was quite ordinary, lacking any exceptional qualities that would earn them respect from others, including corporate entities.
Dr. Harold grew up in a violent household, witnessing his father's abuse towards his mother and hurtful accusations of an affair with a black man. He continuously confirmed that Dr. Harold was the product of that affair.
At six years old, he reported his father to the authorities, but they dismissed his pleas. Tragically, his mother died, and the authorities accidentally killed his father. He felt used due to poverty and powerlessness, and this experience scarred Dr. Harold. He solemnly pledged to himself to pursue success with relentless determination, sparing no sacrifice. Yet, in the shadow of this unwavering resolve, a quiet bitterness took root — a selective closing of the heart that, over time, barred the tender whispers of love from the chambers where only resentment seemed to reside.
Finally, when Bayo arrived, and Dr. John's frustration was evident, Dr. Harold couldn't help but smirk. Dr. Harold let out a low, mocking laugh, the sound carrying a weight that seemed to fill the room. "Philip," he began, the question rolling off his tongue with deceptive casualness, "is this the individual upon whom you've staked your aspirations, your very career?" The chuckle that followed was not one of joy but rather a hollow echo of disbelief and veiled challenge.
Dr. Harold believed Dr. John's incompetence could jeopardize his research, but he was determined to make his mark and not let Dr. John's narrow-mindedness and lack of intellect derail their work.
He heard Dr. Harold's words and shot him a furtive look, keeping his face impassive. He replied calmly, laced with command, "You have no right to raise your voice, Arthur."
Dr. Harold's nostrils flared as he processed Dr. John's words, his gaze shifting toward Bayo with a piercing intensity. A silent, skeptical query hung in the air, 'What remarkable feats could he possibly have up his sleeve?'
Seeing Bayo now reminded Dr. Harold of his father, who used to accuse him of being the product of a black man. He clenched his fist, feeling like exterminating every black person.
Although his distorted perspective seemed normal, he hid these thoughts to maintain a clean reputation and reach his desired destination. He felt untouchable as long as he escaped detection. Bayo eyed Dr. Harold surreptitiously, feeling he was an adversary to Dr. John. But Bayo's customary attitude to life stopped him from relying on Dr. Harold or Dr. John. Bayo anticipated that his dealings with Dr. Harold would likely end in disillusionment. He had no faith in Dr. John, but he did not loathe him as he did Dr. Harold at first glance.
Interrupting Bayo's thoughts, Dr. John's voice carried a quiet intensity, "Is this your standard of work?" His gaze lingered on Bayo, a silent reprimand for his tardiness.
In a murmur barely louder than a breath, Bayo offered his truth, "The path eluded me on my journey here," his words weaving a tapestry of unspoken apologies.
Dr. John echoed with a measured tone, "Lost your way?" His stare bore into Bayo, an unspoken judgment of his inadequacy hanging between them.
Dr. John was about to point out Bayo's shortcomings and issue a warning when two ladies entered the room.
Anderson Mary was the first person they noticed, as they could smell her heavy perfume from a distance. The other person was Christian Betty, whose heavy and elaborate pearl necklace created a low dissonant noise with every movement.
Mrs. Christian was a native of New York, while Ms Anderson came from the Vermont Burlington. These two individuals were taking a coffee break, as the complexity of their research could strain even the most resilient brain cells.
The moment Mrs. Christian's gaze fell upon Bayo, her features subtly shifted — a slight furrow of her brow, a faint curl of her lip — betraying a veneer of displeasure. With a voice tinged with forced lightness, she remarked, "Oh, what do we have here? A little visitor, perhaps?"
Delicately, she reached for the insecticide, wielding it not unlike a painter with a brush, and with practiced grace, she began to mist the air around Bayo, each press of the nozzle a measured beat in her silent dance of domestic vigilance.
As Mrs. Christian's behavior unfolded before his eyes, Dr. John's reaction was visceral; he withdrew slightly, an involuntary contraction of his neck betraying his discomfort. Not unfamiliar with controversy, Dr Harold found a flicker of distaste crossing his features, an involuntary testament to the unsettling display by the woman of distinguished years.
As Bayo's features subtly mirrored the storm brewing within, Mrs. Christian, oblivious to the boundaries of decorum, breached the intimate halo around Dr. John. She inhaled deeply, a hint of playfulness in her tone, "Philip, is that the scent of a hard day's work I detect?" Her attempt at humor meant to lighten the air, instead hung heavy, a misstep in jest that stirred a wave of unease in its wake.
Mrs. Christian's demeanor hadn't always carried the weight of neediness. In her youth, she married early, grappling with the evolving concepts of feminism and her role within them.
She endured a hard road but forged her place in her career gradually. However, life's cruel twist came when her husband, scarred by the horrors of World War 1, returned home. Haunted by the war, he sought solace in control, inadvertently tightening the emotional rope to his wife, who became his anchor in a sea of turmoil.
Mrs. Christian's deeds frequently blurred the boundary between love and suffocation in her pursuit of intimacy. For instance, the incident with the insecticide was an awkward attempt at humor, a misguided effort to draw a laugh and perhaps a closer bond. Yet, it only served to alienate, leaving others to question her grasp on social cues and reality. Although her intention wasn't malicious, it lost its translation, reflecting a profound disconnect from the world around her and an unyielding yearning for closeness.
At that moment, Bayo heard a loud slam on the desk. He shifted his focus and noticed the woman whose annoying fragrance hung in the air since her arrival. Bayo had noticed the lingering scent but chose not to say anything.
Ms. Anderson, with the poise of her 39 years, met Bayo's eyes with a piercing intensity. Her finger rose, not quite accusatory, but undeniably present. "What's the matter?" she inquired, her voice a delicate blend of curiosity and reproof, "Is the sight of a woman so novel to you?" The following words danced on her trembling lips, each syllable a rapid, cutting cascade that left a lingering echo of astonishment and censure.
People often felt Ms. Anderson's presence before they saw her, her penetrating gaze a silent herald of the storm within. Dubbed neurotic by those who only glimpsed her surface, she was a mosaic of complexities, each piece a fragment of a family legacy steeped in silent demands and unvoiced praise. As the progeny of high hopes and scarce means, she bore the weight of expectations that soared higher than her ambitions, her every achievement a mere whisper against the roar of potential her parents envisioned.
In the quiet corridors of her mind, where self-doubt and anxiety danced in a relentless ballet, Ms. Anderson's behavior was an echo of her inner disquiet — a symphony of extremes that oscillated between fervent pursuit and profound retreat. Her intensity was not a choice but a chorus of familial pressures long internalized, a relentless drive to validate her worth in the eyes of those who had staked everything on her success yet remained blind to the cost.
