Havenhof Story Chapter 1

Introduction

         There are no geniuses... that much is a fact. Those with great intelligence calculate like machines with all the sheer thought power they can conjure. They make great leaps in science and mathematics, but make use of only their brains, and not their minds. They adhere so to facts, that they can't be fictional, or original. They will oftentimes be offended at your jokes, and will lash out sharply. You could take quite a while trying to teach these prodigies how to playfully rib around, so they can enjoy a full social life.
         Those with great artistic talent are often over-romantic, grandiose, "Social-Conventions-Be-Damned," irreverent idealists. You know the stereotype? It's absolute, without-a-doubt, definite truth. They really are open-minded, which is choice for receiving great ideas. Why, even I myself have been known to leave my mind open for a while. Their only problem is, they never close theirs.
         You do not know how many of either of these people (such a slovenly bunch) are that I have had to instruct them personally for weeks on showering and clothing themselves properly. A lot have stayed drunk for years on end, and I have had to teach them, rather harshly, (at least they thought it was harsh) how not to indulge. Want to know why? A lot drink for consolation, and many because they say it inspires them. Of course, some just drank because they enjoyed the taste. I had to tell them the only things brandy would "inspire" were hallucinations and thought-numbing brandy hangovers.
         Then there are the types that are purported to be sagely, older people. Really, it is closer to the truth to say that oftentimes, age has given them more time to amass stupidity than anything has. Sophistic, elderly, men and women? There are none. Dirty old men and gossipy old women, all, and hardly the model of age society want to live up to.
         I, Peter Havenhof, am the Chief of Genii and Anomalies, not that that is a prestigious title. I am a man, dedicated wholly to the deprogramming of these extremes, trying to manage an even keel in the loftiness of this age. You can imagine, then, my surprise when I met a man that fit all three of these models of genius, and he could do it with his eyes closed. Literally.
         Gabriel Reynourd was blind. He was quite blind... quite truly blind. So blind you could walk him to the broadside of a barn and make him touch it, and he would still say, "This can't really be here, because I can't see it." So stubborn. However, he astounded me... though I am not sure I am supposed to be. Seeing as that I am the man who thought of the schools, and I am the one that came up with the whole bloody philosophy, why should I be so fascinated by one of my students?
         Gabriel was the only one who questioned my ideals, who thought of a way to refute the hype that journalists place on my Academies. I did not like it. In fact, I pretty well hated it. I had encouraged these people, by my own rules, that they should expand their thinking. I was proven, that year, wrong. As was my ego, and my thought system. This is the story of that year.

Havenhof's School for the Sophomoric, Prodigious, and Unlearned
Or Disproved

Chapter 1:

         All these 83 years I've walked over this green earth, and, after witnessing the people I love die; observing a transformation from nations of nonconformists to blind followers of the proverbial Beast, worshippers of his fabled image; and foremost, seeing the change in education (seeing that they're educating the visionaries) I've concluded one thing: change... is a bitch. You know, before I arrived at this “school,” I was a professor of New English at Yale University, had graduated magna cum laude from the same school, and was then working on my thirteenth book. Now they send me to one of these Academies, with their leader as a self-professed godsend. They are telling me (tactfully) that I don't have the wisdom or intelligence enough to clean my own anus.
         The first thing I thought was, "Phooey on them. They don't deserve me." That was until I actually arrived at the place. I found out (by searching the Braille archives myself and not asking.) that the building has a façade tooled into the face of a canyon. I felt the ridges of the drawing, and the Braille caption read that it was carved deep into the mountain; it was wooden logs chinked with a sort of rubbery marrow.
         Everywhere you listened you could hear instructors! Nowhere to be heard was the boring prattling of so many collegiates. These were the most deeply talented and devoted professors who really knew their stuff. Though the walls were of limestone, the doors were made of wood. Everywhere there was a musty fragrance, not like a cave, but as if it were of nature, (because it was, you know.) It was a clean, pine sap and cedar-wood smell. It wasn't at all posh, and yet, in its own way, was pure, simple elegance. A corridor opened into a colossus of a room filled with trees lit from above by hundreds of fossil fuel spotlights and incandescent lamps. Although I couldn't see them, I could make out the distinctive, hollow hiss of gas into a lantern chimney.
         As I walked through the first day, I felt at home and repelled simultaneously. I couldn't help it. I was "one with nature" and at once at odds with the very place. Then the unexpected happened. Someone was actually courteous to me. A young man with a youthful gait and a sprightly smile walked up to me at once and, in a mild Soviet accent, introduced, "You must be new... Come with me, I'll show you around the--" He stopped, seeming to note my dark glasses, "--Give you a guided tour of our little home here."
         I beamed at him and returned the kind gesture, "Thank you, son. Do you have anything to drink? Do you have anything strong?"
         His tone sounded concerned, as if I might've wanted to get smashed. "Like some special boozes...?"
         I was annoyed... Boozes? Unsophisticated brat! You make an anagram of it and it spells bozoes, which I'm not. I finally asked, "Say, who are you and how many years young are you?" Idiot boy... you don't question an 83-year-old man when he wants alcohol! You GIVE IT TO HIM!
         "My name is Peter, 26 years young... and yours is Gabriel, right? All right, Gabriel, I'll give you your drinks... come with me." I was agog. Peter? Peter Havenhof? This little fiend? I couldn't believe my ears. How does he know who I am?
         I followed him to a wide, rather chilled room, that I assumed was his drink cellar. I could tell it was expansive, because the sound reverberated for a while before stopping, “What's your poison? Cognac? Merlot? Pinot? Something with a kick?"
         I answered, impressed at his taste for such a young man, "May I sample your best cognac? Then, after that, I’ll have a draught of good old rotgut gin. First day of instruction, let's not get me too stoned." I chuckled.
         I heard him open a cabinet, and remove three glasses, “So, Gabriel. They tell me you're special, that your skill in the fine arts is nonpareil, that your intelligence is beyond mortals, and due to your age and training, all this has crystallized in your brain, thus, also, you are wise." I heard the drinks poured along with catching a sniff of vodka, "I don't like you already." He spoke with sincerity, “I'll tell you why. You're already smarter than I am, and older than any of my other students, which means you're incorrigible. I detest incorrigibility in men, especially old men. So difficult to break their skull." He breathed a punctuated sigh, "However, I digress. Here's your brandy. Anything else you want to know?"
         Yes, Mr. Presumptuous, I thought, How can you be so bright and so demeaning at the same time? "What exactly do you teach here, young man? Science? Arts? Etiquette?" I had a nip from my brandy.
         The answer is simple, Old-Timer, his tone inferred. He brimmed with authority, and almost sounded rehearsed, “I teach good habits, and break old ones, and give new opinions to he or she who considers himself worth my time. Why? Because even educated oafs are still oafs until they learn no one is beneath them."
         I turned up my gin tumbler and imbibed, thinking, He’s good! A little cryptic, but good. "Tell me, ahem, Master Havenhof, are you this... kind to all your new meat?"
         I could hear the smile in his voice, "Just the ones that let me." He raised his glass, and proclaimed in his native Russian, "Na zdrovya!" Then he just knocked his tumbler-full back. I heard him gulp and the glass slammed to the table. I finished my beverages and Peter showed me to my room.
         My personal dormitory was in the upper reaches of the tree-room. I was about 87 feet from the ground; it seemed high, even for me, because it was drafty up here. I set down my stock. My suitcase, my cane, my supply cases, and my cello, which Peter carried for me. Through all the condescension, it seemed as if he were trying to venerate me, even a little, for my renown. He was, after all, a very young man.
         I entered my bathroom, and took a shower. This place was geothermic, and hot water was pumped up at high pressure through these conduits in the stone. It was the most refreshing shower I had ever experienced. The mineral-rich water made me feel cleaner than I thought I'd felt since early childhood. Then I got out my cello and played the melody of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor before collapsing from the exhaustion of the trip.. I dreamed of all I was wanting for, and all I had...

"And the morning and evening were the first day."