Boneca [Doll]

Chapter 50: Resignation

Luuk found himself on the brink of an imminent getaway this week, but the road ahead was laden with unresolved matters. Some issues, particularly those entangled with the complexities of hearts and feelings, seemed more intricate than assembling IKEA furniture.

Navigating the emotional minefield wasn't exactly Luuk's strong suit; his expertise lay more in deciphering ancient languages than the cryptic hieroglyphics of human emotions. The world, according to Luuk, had always been a quirky place, like a cosmic sitcom with unpredictable plot twists.

"Endangered, huh?" A student's voice sliced through Luuk's contemplation like a hot knife through butter.

As Luuk ascended the auditorium's platform, he addressed the curious minds before him. The identity of the question-thrower was as inconsequential as deciphering the nutritional information on a bag of Cheetos. "Not all minority languages are endangered. They can be small, spoken by a few people, but still pack a punch," he explained.

"So it can be small and strong?" A nincompoop in a green jumpsuit parroted Luuk's explanation.

"There are communities out there actively yapping away in their language from the get-go. If it doesn't show signs of swapping partners with other languages, then yes, it can be small yet strong." Luuk's gaze swept across the sea of faces, a mix of intrigue and skepticism. "For example, relatively, I'm smaller than you," he pointed at a hefty student showcasing a bull neck, "but that doesn't mean you can toss me around in Jiu-Jitsu."

"You? Good at Jiu-Jitsu?" The beefy student snickered, reclining in his seat like a sitcom character ready to deliver the punchline. A few students joined the laughter track.

Their banter was as effective as a rubber crutch. Curious minds might shed ignorance, but this bunch seemed more likely to misplace it. "A few moons ago, I found myself in the Amazon, transcribing an indigenous language. Kamaúira is a prime example of a language that's like a chihuahua—small but fiercely holding its ground. In the '50s, there were just fifty folks speaking it after getting slapped by measles. Now, they're flourishing, with at least five hundred speakers. Small, yet robust."

"Five hundred. Sounds like a party." A mestiza in the front row, chin in hand, sighed.

"More like a linguistic fiesta for me. Imagine being stuck in that Amazonian carnival for three months, forced to buddy up with monkeys." He talked more to himself.

As with every batch of students Luuk ever had, laughter echoed through the auditorium when he aimed for seriousness. People are indeed bizarre creatures.

"I'm surprised you lasted that long," she remarked.

"And why is that?" Luuk inquired, fully aware of her implied skepticism.

"Well. You don't exactly look like Indiana Jones." She blushed as Luuk chuckled.

"That's an illogical conundrum. It's like saying a penguin shouldn't be considered a bird just because it can't catch flights. And Indiana Jones is a whip-cracking archaeologist. I don't look like him because I've never raided King Tut's crib."

"Who?"

"The Pharaoh." Grabbing his bag from the lectern, Luuk strolled toward the exit. "Send your topic report to Ethan by Friday. William's taking over the class next week. That's a wrap for today."

"But Friday's in two days!" One of them protested, supported by a chorus of "Yes."

"Touché. Adjust your perspective; you've got 2880 minutes. More than enough to savor each word like a gourmet meal. You're not sloths; embrace the linguistic feast."

A chorus of rejections lingered in the auditorium as Luuk stepped into the corridor. As planned that morning, his legs led him to the Dean's office. The deserted corridor seemed longer and wider, a small part of him tethered to this department by sentiments that were about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. No Sherlock was needed to discern the need to follow his hunch, dismissing emotions right here and now.

Dean Copper's office door swung wide open. With a knock that could rival a woodpecker's enthusiasm, Professor Smit barged in as she beckoned him with a gnarled finger, doing a pretty decent impersonation of a witch in a fairy tale.

Dang, he always loathed that move. Her fingers were reminiscent of the old crone who once tried to snatch him as a kid.

"Sit, Professor Smit," she ordered, eyes glued to whatever riveting paperwork was on her desk.

He despised that too. Her nose had a talent that could give bloodhounds a run for their money. Rumor had it she could sniff out students who dared to sneak a sip or puff from ten yards away, identifying them by scent alone.

"I actually just laid eyes on your paper acceptance email. Surprising sight—seeing you as the corresponding author." She tossed her yellow pen aside and shot a glance in his direction.

"Ethan did the literary heavy lifting. I'm just the good-looking prop," he casually mentioned while taking a seat.

"I trust your discretion."

"And it seems like you haven't graced your latest email with your presence."

"Nope, not yet. Early bird lecture at eight this morning. Anything earth-shattering?" Her palm rested on the white mouse.

He dropped his resignation letter on her desk like a mic drop. "I emailed over my resignation letter. This is the hard copy. Old-school style."

Her swivel chair did a quick 180, facing the other direction momentarily. "Excuse me?" She spun back around to face him.

"I'm here to tender my resignation."

Her gaze dug deeper as she removed her glasses, a look that screamed, "Should I throw him out the window?" Unironically, he was on a mission for defenestration today.

"Why? Any inconveniences you're itching to share?" she probed.

"Nah, all's been dandy. But, hey, I'm catching the next flight to San Francisco in a week."

She unfolded his letter, and her blue-painted nails clashed with the white paper. After a whopping two seconds of reading, she winced. His farewell notes weren't exactly tearjerkers. "So, you're packing your bags for the Smit company?"

He met her gaze. "Got to keep the corporate ship sailing smoothly. Can't do that from five hours away. Hope this doesn't look like a blatant favoritism move or a tactical escape."

She stayed silent for a few more seconds.  "I trust you know your ABCs. But we still need you to publish that Kamaúira manuscript."

"Resigning doesn't strip me of my anthropology cape. I'm on it."

They spent another thirty minutes doing the schedule. She looked like she'd aged a couple of decades by the time he shook her hand for the last time. For a sixty-year-old, it wasn't exactly a good look.

"The only reason I've been holding back despite a sea of student complaints is that you're the best associate I've had in three decades, Smit," she'd mentioned earlier. Plus, the mountain-sized donation helped sweeten the deal.

He was well aware of that. His research's importance in this department for the past four years was akin to a national treasure.

Luuk felt an unexpected wave of liberation as he exited her office. He'd let this place siphon his genius for four years. The cheeky part of him wanted to holler "See ya, wouldn't want to be ya!" to his colleagues and do a little skip out of the department, grinning like a cat who just stole the canary.