SILENCE IS GOLDEN
The Peculiar Favor
It is the things we cannot understand, I suppose, that impress us most.
As Ashley sorrowfully explained how he had fumbled his Anatomy Theory paper, a growing sense of awe at his knowledge filled me. He began by sharing the correct answers, followed by the ones he had written, and then delved into discussing the disparities between the two. It was all far beyond my comprehension. I couldn’t help but think it was unfair to expect any examinee to remember such intricate details. I found it utterly preposterous how complicated the human body can be. Despite these thoughts, I kept them to myself, knowing they would offer no solace to my nephew, who had just returned from the examination hall with a belated realization of the right answers.
Ashley continued to reproach himself, sinking into a state of introspection I had never seen before in a student going through an examination. He had truly messed up the paper, and it was a pity because he was the type to seriously dwell on such failures and eventually become flustered during the oral examination as well.
As my sister pointed out, the Theory and Oral components were interconnected, allowing Ashley to make up lost marks during the oral exam. However, Ashley didn’t hold out much hope.
Doctor Flitwick, his examiner, was known to correct the papers before the oral examination and was particularly tough on those who had botched their theory. Finally, Ashley retired to his room to wallow in his misery, seeking privacy.
When we were alone, my sister unveiled the plan she had devised. Thanks to her photographic memory, she remembered that Professor Flitwick and I had been school and college friends before he pursued his medical studies. According to her, the best course of action now is for me to visit Flitwick and discuss Ashley’s candidacy. I must admit, I considered it an ill-advised move. Not that I objected to advocating for Ashley with his examiner, but I doubted my ability to do so effectively. Flitwick and I were never particularly close during our student days. I primarily remembered him for an act of cowardly betrayal when he informed the chemistry professor about the broken Kripps apparatus. Moreover, eighteen years had passed since then, and as I informed my sister, that was a long time ago.
You know how women seize on one point to counter another. My sister argued that the length of this period worked in our favor; Flitwick would likely have forgotten about my disagreement with him. Furthermore, she believed we were both at a stage in life, on the threshold of middle age, where people tend to feel sentimental about their college years and reminisce about long-lost classmates. You know how sisters can be. After fifteen minutes of discussion, I found myself reluctantly committed to calling on Flitwick that same evening.
The more I contemplated the situation, the less I liked it. Rather than improving Ashley’s chances in the oral exam, my visit might have had the opposite effect. I attempted to recall pleasant, distant memories that I could nostalgically share with Flitwick, but all I could think of were incidents involving the Kripps apparatus. Nevertheless, I was committed to my task.
At 5 o’clock, I set off on my mission after obtaining Flitwick’s address from the telephone directory. Wisely, I decided to make my visit a surprise and forgot to call him first.
I had a small slip of paper in my pocket with Ashley’s register number written on it.
Halfway to Flitwick’s place, I came to my senses and took out the slip of paper from my pocket. I tore it into shreds and threw it out of the taxi window. It was crucial to the success of our mission that Ashley be casually introduced into the conversation after first establishing a friendly rapport with Flitwick. If I were to consult the slip of paper in his presence, the purpose of my visit would be too obvious and could potentially antagonize him. I recalled that Ashley’s register number was a simple, easily remembered figure. As I memorized it before tearing up the slip, I noted that it added up to six, a seemingly auspicious total according to the examinees’ superstitions.
Flitwick’s house was miles away from civilization, almost hidden within a sprawling compound. I knocked vigorously on the bolted door, but there was no response. As I turned away, I noticed a narrow side path partially concealed by bushes. And there, at the end of the path, stood Flitwick himself.
He was bald now and had changed considerably since the old days, but there was no mistaking him as he stood in front of a little shed. It was a chicken or pigeon coop. He held something like a pigeon in his hand—yes, a large red pigeon!
I watched him from a shadowed distance as he remained preoccupied with his curious activity.
Then, without warning, he turned around, and I could no longer see his face. In the distance, he was half-turned away from me. His head shaking, he was suddenly engrossed in a battle with the pigeon in his hand. What was the old man up to? Was he killing the bird? I wanted to find out.
I cautiously approached within two yards of him. He must have heard my approaching steps, for he turned around and faced me.
I froze in my tracks!
Was I seeing what I saw, or was it a figment of my imagination?
I had known Flitwick for a long time. He had always been somewhat eccentric, but I was unprepared for the sight before me.
The small shed in front of him was a pigeon loft, and Flitwick held a copper-colored pigeon in one hand. But what shocked me was the sight of Professor Flitwick!
His mouth was full of feathers!
As soon as he spotted me, he hastily spat out the feathers and beamed with recognition.
“It’s been far too long since I last saw you!” he blurted out, his exclamations of delighted surprise reverberating.
But I stood there like a statue, unable to speak and utterly confused.
It was a pleasant surprise that the old Professor remembered me, considering that I, too, must have changed considerably since our last encounter. What puzzled me the most was the warmth of his welcome. My sister’s intuition had been right after all.
Flitwick tossed the bird back into the loft and, approaching me, enthusiastically grasped my hands.
“Yes… But, Professor, why were you biting the pigeon?” I couldn’t help but ask, curiosity overriding tactfulness.
Doctor Flitwick burst into laughter, nearly choking on his mirth.
I was even more perplexed.
Once we regained our composure, the old man explained that he had not been biting the bird but rather pulling out the dead flight feathers of his finest flyer to promote the growth of strong, new feathers.
“Oh!” I slowly exclaimed, a mixture of shame and guilt filling me.
He only confirmed my initial impression that people who collect pigeons have peculiar habits.
Doctor Flitwick insisted on showing me his loft and birds, despite my continuous protests about my lack of knowledge on the subject. Eventually, he called forth the copper-colored bird and held it up for me to admire.
“This pigeon is the pride of my loft,” he informed me, with a tinge of sadness in his voice as he mentioned that its mate had fallen victim to a cat two months ago.
As he led me towards the house, he recounted his futile attempts to replace the lost companion, specifically mentioning the scarcity of red-check tumblers in the region.
At that moment, a brilliant idea struck me. However, I decided to wait until we had exchanged reminiscences and shared a pot of tea before broaching the subject.
“That red pigeon of yours…” Taking my final sip of tea, I remarked, “My nephew, Ash, used to have pigeons just like that.”
Flitwick leaned forward in his chair, eagerness illuminating his aging face.
In the next instant, he inquired about my nephew, Ashley, and his birds. I explained that Ashley no longer kept pigeons.
“He had several of them,” I added hastily. “What were they? Yes, red tumblers! But these days, he dedicates all his time to his studies, so he has given away the birds to a friend” (which was indeed true, as Ashley had a pigeon-fancying friend somewhere).
I played my trump card when Flitwick started urging me to introduce him to my nephew.
“That, Doctor Flitwick, would be rather embarrassing, you know,” I remarked, “to both of you!”
Then, with a fine show of forthrightness, I told him all about Ashley’s bungling of the Anatomy Theory paper and how I had come to ask if he could help in any way.
“I have come without my nephew’s knowledge,” I concluded truthfully. “You see, Dr. Flitwick, Ash has rigid principles and would have never allowed me to do this if he had known.”
The doctor was taken aback too. He became silent.
After a while, I looked at my watch, feigning a look of being late.
Dr. Flitwick noticed my gesture and suddenly broke the silence.
“So, what was it about his Anatomy Theory paper?” he asked.
I repeated what I told him earlier, and he began to make guarded inquiries about Ashley’s performance at the examination. Naturally, I could give him no details, but when he asked for Ashley’s number, I knew I had succeeded in my mission.
It was just as well that I had memorized the number and noted its total, for I gave it to him at once, with no fumbling about in pockets, before he could change his mind.
He wrote down the number 132 in his precise hand in a little black pocketbook and returned it carefully to the top drawer of his desk. Then he explained to me at great length that he could do practically nothing.
I listened to him patiently. Of course, I couldn’t expect a man of his principles to favor any candidate, but if, ah, the young man should do well at the Oral, there was still some hope. As I would see for myself, the copper-colored pigeon was now quite out of the question.
I pointed out that there could be no harm in it so long as he made no compromises with his conscience, a thing of which he was incapable. Moreover, there could be room for objection only if Ashley ever came to know anything about this meeting, and I assured him Ashley would not.
I proposed to Dr. Flitwick that I would ask my nephew merely for his friend’s address and take the bird from this friend without mentioning the person who wanted it.
Flitwick protested vehemently against it all, but I was firm. It was when he insisted that he should pay for the bird even if his identity remained undisclosed that I saw how keen he was, in fact.
This touch of human frailty appealed to me so much more than all his principles. But to maintain the fiction of Ashley’s original ownership of the birds, I had to say that it was highly unlikely that anyone who had gotten the pigeons from my nephew would accept money from me for one of them. Nevertheless, I promised to try and insist on a fair price being paid.
As Doctor Flitwick escorted me to the gate, he was still full of objections to my proposal, but I noticed that in between, he kept on telling me that what he wanted was a large red check hen, not a cockerel.
He had been impressed with my ignorance of pigeons!
Back home, my sister and I agreed that we couldn’t dream of taking Ashley into our confidence. That would be a breach of faith because of my promise to Doctor Flitwick, and that would only make the young man more jittery at his viva voce. Further, we decided not to hurry things too much but to wait a day or two after the Oral before approaching Ashley’s pigeon-loving friend. She agreed to get his address for me.
A few days later, we were rather surprised when Ashley told us that Doctor Flitwick had heckled him severely at the Oral, but on second thoughts, we realized that this was quite in keeping with the desire to maintain appearances.
It all augured well.
Ashley, in his ignorance, thought otherwise. He sank to depths of despondency that even he had not reached before.
Imagine my surprise when I finally tracked down Ashley’s friend. I was even more surprised to find out that he had at least 14 pigeons, of which six were red! He wouldn’t hear of any uncle of Ashley paying him for a bird, but he seemed a little reluctant to part with a large, handsome pigeon. He assured me it was a hen. I put the bird into a basket after he had obligingly tied its wings for me.
I did not wait to take the red pigeon straight to Doctor Flitwick the same day.
When I reached the place, I must say that Old Flitwick’s reactions were unexpected in the extreme. I was sure he would be overjoyed, particularly as he wanted a big hen, and this bird seemed even bigger than his cockerel. But to my stupefaction, he only roared with laughter when he saw my present.
I stood there, more confused than ever.
In between bursts of rude amusement, Flitwick kept repeating that I had not, despite the years, lost my old flair for mixing things. According to him, neither the large size nor the rich redness of my pigeon were surprising. I had brought him nothing more than a homer, and red checks were common among homer pigeons.
Dr. Flitwick also told me he had no use for the bird but insisted on keeping it, even after I told him how I couldn’t pay for it as he desired. He explained he wanted it to remind him of me constantly and laughed loud and long as if that were a joke.
As I climbed into the taxi, still feeling a mix of confusion and amusement, I couldn’t help but reflect on the peculiar turn of events. Doctor Flitwick’s unexpected reaction to the pigeon left me bemused, but his whispered revelation about Ashley’s performance in the Oral filled me with hope and satisfaction.
“That candidate of yours,” he whispered in a dramatic aside. “Well, he didn’t do too badly in the Oral.”
During the journey home, I made a firm decision. My mistake regarding the pigeon would remain my secret, as it was inconsequential compared to the main purpose of my visits to Doctor Flitwick. I resolved not to share this detail with my sister, knowing that it would only cause unnecessary worry. And it was not the main issue.
We resolved never to tell Ashley of my visits to Dr. Flitwick. Ashley was just the sort of young man who would mind them very much. But we were naturally sorry we could not give Ashley the good news, for we knew he would sulk dismally for the next three days until the examination results were announced.
But we were not sorry for long. Through one of those sources of confidential information that medical students have, he learned of his success that afternoon. He refused, however, to accept our congratulations, for with each passing hour, he felt more and more inclined to doubt the reliability of his source.
It was when the results were published that I had the biggest surprise.
I pointed to the number 132 in the paper and ragged Ashley about his earlier fears. He looked quite blank, and very naturally too, for though he had passed the examination, his number was 123, as I realized the moment he pointed it out.
Then whose number was 132?
I wondered if that student also got through without my intervention. I cannot ask Ashley, for that would only rouse his suspicions, but I am sure that silence is a virtue when all ends well.”
Furthermore, we agreed not to mention these encounters to Ashley, understanding his temperament and how he might react to such knowledge.
As I told myself for the second time, there are times when all is well that ends well.
Sometimes, silence is truly golden.
