THE BLUE DOOR

"Welcome to New Delhi Professor Akheeli," A young man says, smiling at the middle-aged man standing in front of him. 

The professor is elegantly dressed: well-polished black shoes, a white shirt, a fuchsiatie, a dark grey jacket, and grey trousers. His suitcase is dangling from one hand while a satchel bag is dangling from the other. He is slender, of average height for a man of his time, big green eyes. He looks as though he hasn't slept much, but he smiles back at the young man who is holding a small electronic sign with the professor's full name on it in big letters: Dr. Tempéra Akheeli. The young man planted in front of him is slender too. His hair is dark and straight. Both men have light brown skin and black hair, but the professor's hair is voluminous and curly.

"My name is Prashant Gomez," the young man adds immediately, initiating a firm handshake with the professor. 

Although Prashant's accent is Indian, the features of his face have no single origin just like Tempéra's face. Exhausted, the professor warmly shakes Prashant's hand with a gentle smile. He slept very badly during the flight, horrible nightmares, like he has never had before. 10 hours from Paris, 10 hours of torture.

"When do we start?" Tempéra asks his host.

Professor Akheeli isn't French. He simply took advantage of this trip to India to visit a childhood friend in Paris. His French and German are fluent, and he speaks English like those children who studied in international schools. Son of a businessman father and a physicist mother, Professor Akheeli has had more than one place of residence in his youth. However, it is in his native Togo where he eventually decided to settle down with his family to continue his research about eight years ago.

"Today, if you'd like," Prashant replies enthusiastically. "But maybe you prefer to rest a bit, don't you, professor?"

"No, not really," Tempéra snaps.

"Very well. Our team can't wait to get started."

" ... And you are... ?" The professor calmly continues, politely reminding Prashant that apart from giving his name, he hasn't introduced himself.

"Sorry. I'm your client's cousin and agent," the young man continues cheerfully. "She's looking forward to starting."

The landscape that passes through the closed window of the vehicle that is driving Tempéra to his client isn't that of the large, overpopulated and polluted megalopolis of the beginning of the 21st century. Instead, the car window displays a delightful field of flowers on a sunny day. This is the norm these days. It has been years since people no longer look through the windows of vehicles or buildings to see what is really going on out there, but rather to see what they would rather like to see. They say it is much better that way. That's exactly what the professor thinks.

Soon, they arrive in the underground parking lot of a large building guarded by armed security guards. Tempéra immediately notices the surveillance cameras, but it doesn't surprise him. Clients who can afford his services have extraordinary financial means. Their discretion, their safety as well as that of the professor consist of their number 1 priority. The door opens in front of the professor who gets out of the vehicle with his bag. Prashant, who is already outside, opens the boot to take Tempéra's suitcase out. The professor follows his host silently to the lift. The building is even more sophisticated and luxurious than he had imagined. He marvels at the style and refinement of the furniture as they pass through several floors and several rooms. These customers obviously have good taste, but this place looks like a maze. He would be unable to find his way out without the assistance of his guide.

"Here we are," Prashant finally says when they arrive in front of a huge glass door through which a group of around twenty people dressed in white scrubs are standing in a line with their arms crossed behind their backs like obedient servants.

"This is our team," Prashant immediately adds as the glass door automatically opens before them. The young man gently grabbed the bag hanging from Tempéra's shoulder to hand it together with the suitcase to one of the security guards stationed at the entrance.

"Let me introduce you to everyone," Prashant exclaims with a broad smile.

Professor Akheeli shakes one hand after another as they reach out to him with a cordial nod, followed by a polite "Professor" and then a name the Professor forgets almost instantly. They are all giving him a broad childish smile. The professor suspects a bluff. They men and women of science, are anything but innocent. Tempéra turns to Prashant as if to ask him which of these female faces is perhaps his client's, Sheila Karim. During his correspondence with her, she turned out to be very knowledgeable about genetics and artificial birth. Most of his clients are completely ignorant of the details of these two sciences. Nevertheless, they know exactly what they want: a child with genes strong enough to survive the harsh conditions of the planet.

Prashant turns his head toward the blue door behind the professor. Tempéra immediately shivers and hesitates for a moment. He starts to head slowly for the door. There was a blue door also in his dream and behind that door there was complete nothingness like on the first day of the world. The professor grabs the handle to open the door that he already senses will change his destiny as a learnt man. At the same moment, he arrives inside a long corridor with subdued reddish light. At the very end, he can see another room. A strong smell of incense immediately permeates Tempéra's nostrils and clothes. The spicy scent triggers a small coughing fit in the professor who stops to shake his head violently for a few seconds before closing the door behind him. He starts rushing into the long corridor. A series of paintings of Indian gods and goddesses are hanging on both walls. The characters seem to make fun of Tempera's beautiful tailoring with their half-naked bodies adorned with flowers and strangely shaped jewellery. The professor stares at them, frowning doubtfully as he walks past. He suspected that these clients were awkward, but he had no idea until now to what extent. After all, the beliefs or motives of his clients are the least of his concerns as long as their case can help advance his research and they have the financial means. The clear light coming from the other end of the corridor contrasts with that of the corridor where Tempéra is slowly walking. Intrigued, and somewhat annoyed by the curious characters in the paintings as well as the unfamiliar scent around him, he quickens his pace.