Gold Dust by Chris Lynch Read Free Book Online Page A

can do better than that,” she said, unfazed by our lack of enthusiasm. “Our guest this morning is one of the world’s leading authorities in his field. ...”
    “In his field? We gotta listen to a farmer speech?” Manuel asked.
    Everybody laughed. Even Sister Jacqueline laughed. This was one of the better elements of being here in St. C’s, at least in this particular class. Sister ran a fairly loose ship, and as long as we didn’t take liberties, we were allowed some floor. Especially if you were funny, you were allowed some floor. Manny had the floor a lot.
    “No, as a matter of fact, our guest’s field is literature.”
    We reached high C with that groan.
    “He is a professor of creative writing and Caribbean literature over at Boston University, and has generously donated his time to...”
    Sister continued her glowing introduction, but my attention was pulled by Napoleon slinking down in his seat and covering his eyes.
    “What’s up with you?” I asked.
    “My father,” he said.
    “Really? That’s him? Cool.”
    “Yes? How would you like for your father to come and speak to your classmates?”
    “And what, lecture us about mufflers and brake pads? I’d love to see him try. No, my man, you’re the lucky one. This’ll be fun.” I reached over and gave Napoleon’s forearm a squeeze.
    “Please, let it not be fun,” Napoleon said.
    “Sorry, that’s out of my control,” I said.
    “... welcome Doctor Malcolm Ellis,” Sister concluded, as Dr. Ellis strode into the room and we all politely clapped for him.
    He was a serious-looking guy, about six foot one, with a lean face that had sharp angles like it was carved from stone, tightly cut graying hair, a trim mustache, and black frame glasses. He wore a pearly gray overcoat that he removed to reveal a dark blue suit with a vest. And a long scarf. Sister took his things and disappeared, leaving Dr. Ellis to us. We were silent, and more polite than we were for the average speaker, as he looked us over, expressionless. Then he smiled, and an entirely different face opened up as the flesh of his face rose and inflated, making roundness where there were those hard edges before.
    Manny raised his hand. Dr. Ellis nodded at him.
    “Doctor, I have this problem with nosebleeds—”
    “Try cutting your fingernails shorter, son,” he answered before Manny could even close his mouth.
    We love Manny. But we love to see Manny get topped. Most of the class laughed out loud, and clapped. But not everyone.
    “I rode two buses to see a minstrel show,” somebody from the back said in a low voice. Napoleon glanced over his shoulder, then faced front again.
    “Good one, Doc,” Manny said, pointing at the speaker. “I like that. Can I have it?”
    “You may if you can tell me what it would be called if you appropriated my work in writing, without permission.”
    “Plagiarism,” Manny shot back.
    “Ah, we are a well prepared group. That is good. For I am really only here to check the quality of my son’s education.” The broad smile opened wider as Dr. Ellis peered down at his son. His son smiled weakly. Everyone looked at Napoleon now.
    But, aside from the basic and obvious fact that it was the guy’s father, there seemed to be no reason to be embarrassed. As far as speakers went, the good doctor was not bad.
    He launched into a history of Caribbean literature, which didn’t figure to be on any test so I didn’t listen too hard. But what I did catch, and found impossible to ignore, was the sound of him. He spoke with a style, with a kind of music to him that was enough to hold some part of your attention no matter how boring his subject was.
    He seemed to hum, as he spoke, and sometimes to be laughing although I would catch this and look up and find that he wasn’t laughing at all but was in fact speaking intensely on some bit of literature that even the best of our students cared about only a little and the rest of us couldn’t even fake. There were