“Paul, I need more info.”
He groaned. “You’ll get me in trouble. I’m really not allowed to say. How about this: I’ll give you a hint and you figure it out, just like the old days.”
In college, Ava had been known for cracking riddles. Classmates tried to stump her at every cocktail party, but she’d amazed them all. It was a gift. Too bad it didn’t pay well.
She accepted the challenge. “Lay it on me.”
“I’ll e-mail you.”
He pecked keys. “Okay, it’s sent. I’m going on Expedia now. I’ll book you an open-ended ticket from Boston to Yemen. Simon’s lawyers will set up your visa and handle the diplomatic details. If you decide not to come, text me back at this number. Otherwise, I’ll meet you at the airport in Sana’a.”
She scrolled down to a message that was sent from pgrant@sdemaj.org: “Something sought in a historic hat bag has been found.”
For half an hour Ava lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. She pondered the clue, working to discern a hidden subtext or pattern, but she made no progress. A different puzzle preoccupied her mind: After all this time, why did Paul still have her number? Before she reached a firm conclusion, she fell into a dream.
When the alarm rang, Ava rolled out of bed. She dressed, grabbed her backpack, trotted downstairs, and, it being an exceptionally sunny morning, began riding her bicycle toward Harvard. Ava was earning her doctorate from MIT, but she’d enrolled in one cross-registered history course. She didn’t need the credit; it was mainly an excuse to see her friends Gabe and Jess and to visit her beloved alma mater. After an invigorating ride, Ava skidded to a stop and secured her bike outside Lowell House. As she cut across the interior courtyard, her eyes lingered on a favorite tree, a majestic giant growing directly in front of the main entrance. Its tallest branches reached three stories; its lowest swept the ground. Each October it turned a brilliant gold, as if touched by Midas. Smiling, Ava crossed Mt. Auburn, made for Dunster Street, turned right onto Mass. Ave., and ducked into Au Bon Pain, ending up in line behind a striking young woman in a sheer tunic and skinny jeans.
“Hello, darling!” said Jess. Several male customers turned, secretly hoping. With her alluring features and sexy British accent, sable-haired Jess stood out in any crowd. A gifted scholar, she might have been Ava’s rival. Instead, Jess numbered among the kindest, most sincere people in their class. Unlike many Harvardians, who would bayonet their peers to obtain a better grade or job, Jess rose above the competitive, duplicitous environment. She’d become one of Ava’s closest confidantes and most steadfast allies.
“Ready to be televised?” Jess asked.
“What?”
“Have you forgotten? We have the guest lecture today. Bagelton. It’ll be on Book TV.”
Ava groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding. I knew he’d speak today, but I didn’t realize it would be a media event.”
Dr. Ron Bagelton was a rising academic celebrity. His books sold well, but Ava considered him guilty of pandering. The type of scholar who appeared on the History Channel, MSNBC, or The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, his usual method was to posit spectacular hypotheses based on scant evidence. One of his best-sellers described a previously unpublished Divine Comedy that featured characters who were different from those in the well-known version. Bagelton alleged that, contrary to Dante’s wishes, a revisionist conspiracy had populated the inferno with victims chosen to reinforce orthodox Church values.
“It’ll be a nightmare,” Ava said, paying for their chai lattes.
“Why?”
She rolled her eyes. “Bagelton’s ego is titanic. He’ll use us as props to establish his brilliance. Our classmates haven’t read his latest book, so they’ll be unable to refute his outlandish theses. To the TV audience, polite passivity will be indistinguishable from submissive acceptance. Viewers will think Bagelton must be legit if he lectures an auditorium full of Ivy Leaguers, never mind that his treatise is just ahistorical speculation tarted up with academic gobbledygook.”
They entered Harvard Yard and walked by Wadsworth House, a clapboard structure in which Washington stayed during the Revolutionary War. They passed Widener Library and entered a redbrick building named Emerson Hall. Ava and Jess took two of the last available seats in room 105, an airy lecture hall with three hundred wooden chairs bolted to its floor. Five minutes later, Dr. Bagelton burst through the doors and strode to the rostrum. With a sinking feeling, Ava whispered, “Here we go.”
It was worse than she’d imagined. Bagelton lectured for thirty-five minutes, then spent another fifteen reading passages from his latest work, The Philosopher-Queens, its cover displayed for the cameras at all times. Afterward, he opened the floor to questions. There were no microphones for students. All cameras remained focused on the author. Ava recognized this bit of media manipulation. No cogent question, correction, or critique would be broadcast. Viewers would see only the speaker’s smiling, confident replies. Despite the rigged game, Ava couldn’t help but play. She raised her hand. Predictably, given the speaker’s interest in pretty college girls, he called on her right away.
“Dr. Bagelton,” she began, “your conjecture seems terribly unlikely. You assert that because highly advanced Atlanteans didn’t conquer the ancient world, Atlantis must have been a peace-loving matriarchy. The notion certainly appeals, especially to women, but you offer no verification that a place called Atlantis ever existed. Even if we suspend our disbelief on that point, no archaeological evidence supports your second premise: that Atlantis achieved an advanced technology. Furthermore, you provide zero proof that the supposed inhabitants were peaceful. Maybe they tried to conquer the region but failed. Or if they did conquer—”
“My dear,” Bagelton interrupted, “your course work must have skipped over the fact that no historical records document an Atlantean conquest, attempted or otherwise. If brave female warriors from Atlantis attacked Greece and Egypt, wouldn’t some evidence remain? Because none exists, we must conclude that the Atlanteans were pacifists.”
“No! The only logical conclusion to draw from no evidence is no conclusion.”
Bagelton’s features settled into a patronizing smirk. “As you advance in your studies, young lady, you’ll discover that much true history has been repressed and hidden by the establishment. The fact that the world’s first and, arguably, greatest civilization was dominated by strong, independent women threatened the monopoly of political power held by the Catholic Church and the European monarchs. These fearful males eradicated all evidence of Atlantis and its philosopher-queens.”
To her amazement, Ava noticed many audience members nodding. What a crock! Frustrated, she collapsed back into her chair. The bigger the lie, she thought, the more books you sell.
The speaker called on another student, who expressed his deep admiration for The Philosopher-Queens and asked Bagelton if he needed a research assistant. The audience groaned, offended by such blatant boot-licking.
“I’ll be happy to consider your résumé when I return from the G8 Summit in Italy,” the author replied smugly.
After the lecture, Ava and Jess walked to the Garage, a converted building that housed a variety of shops and restaurants. Ava’s favorite served authentic Vietnamese cuisine. Inside, boisterous students dined, joked, and debated. While Ava visited the rest room, Jess ordered a bowl of pho large enough to share. Minutes later, Jess spotted Ava threading her way through the maze of busy tables. Suddenly, Ava stopped. The restaurant’s TV had captured her attention. A CNN reporter spoke.