Safe Conduit

ST. DROGO OF SEBOURG CAFE

Safe Conduit

A Novel By

Thomas Sundell

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

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Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Part One: A Placid Life

Chapter 1: The Sum of Its Parts

Michael Stroup is gesticulating widely to his buddies by the tables outside. I can’t hear him, but I can imagine the kind of things he’s saying. Even if it’s only late September, I’ve heard plenty from him in my class on Society and Business Culture. Told he’s whip smart his whole life so he holds a high opinion of himself. Remembers what he’s been told, spewing it back readily. Just not an especially original thinker. That’s an early judgment, though, since maybe I’ll get more out of him as the semester progresses. I’m sitting in St. Drogo sipping my daily mocha. I should be going back over Geert Hofstede’s Cultures and Organizations in advance of tomorrow’s class instead of looking at my finances. Dismal. Not that I’m poor really. No doubt, my income would be the envy of a villager in the South Sudan. Still, I’m drinking a $3.65 beverage, and do so regularly. So what do I have to complain about? It’s not like I’m reduced to Nescafe in a cracked mug at a church homeless shelter. By contrast to Michael Stroup, over in a far corner of St. Drogo sits Nura al Razi. She is bent over her copy of Hofstede’s book, taking notes. Maybe struggling with the English. Not as seemingly brilliant as Stroup, yet her work so far is extremely good. Though she doesn’t participate much in class. Again, my guess is she falls behind in discussions while filtering English into Arabic in her mind, or, if she wants to say something, vice versa. If I were a gambler, I’d put my money on the hard worker over the brilliant mind. Though a hard working brilliant mind would be best. Too many smart people rely on their smarts rather than their work. It’d be nice to have some natural abilities. As a pastime, I sketch. Often here at St. Drogo. And over years of doing so, I’ve improved. No natural ability, though. Likely, no great legacy of drawings either. Still, I enjoy doing it so that’s what counts; also, it’s an inexpensive hobby. “Not drawing today?” asks Emmanuelle, proprietress of St. Drogo of Sebourg Café. She is bussing tables. “Class preparations.” She glances at my laptop screen, “Looks like a household budget.” “Ah, caught me. At the moment I’m contemplating my monthly rent.” “A Professor can afford rent,” she asserts with a smile. “An Adjunct Professor just barely,” I reply. “Adjunct is, what?” “A contractor. Like you’d hire an electrician. Only LWC hires a teacher. No benefits, no office, no school telephone, all of that.” “St. Drogo is your office,” she laughs. “Too true,” I smile. She carries her load of dishes away. I like Emmanuelle. At age 62 or 63, she is mostly cheerful despite close to 70-hour work weeks at St. Drogo, doing everything any barista does,

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell plus all the work of a small business: scheduling; hiring and firing; accounting and taxes; etcetera I generally admire small business owners. Almost as versatile as a farmer of a family- owned farm. LWC — properly Lincoln-Willard College — isn’t my only gig. Besides the three classes at LWC, I have two at the Saints and one distance learning class for Whitaker, the for-profit institution. This morning I was at the Saints in the city. Tuesdays and Thursdays up early and schlep down. Metra into the city, then the bus ride to the campus. For most of its existence, Saints Marcellin Champagnat and Tatiana of Rome College was a Catholic girls’ finishing school. Only in the past thirty years has it become a full-fledged four- year co-ed college. Still, it’s 83% Catholic girls. LWC, on the other hand, is a progressive liberal arts college of the breed like Kenyon, Oberlin, Macalester, and Beloit. Probably 63% to 64% female students, with a goodly proportion from overseas. Nura is standing by my table, “Dr. Kent, may I ask a question?” “Yes, Ms. al Razi?” I tend to be formal, using Mr. and Ms. rather than given names for my students. “You have been to the Emirates?” The question catches me off-guard. I was expecting something about the reading. “Yes, to Dubai and Abu Dhabi.” “My family is from Sharjah,” she says. Dubai, Sharjah, and Ajman are practically one continuous city across three sheikhdoms. “I didn’t know. During our first class, going around the room, you said Washington, D.C.” “Yes, we live there. My father works at the embassy. Eight years now.” I’m not sure where this is going, and I’m not sure I want to go wherever it leads. My policy is not to know much of the lives of my students, especially the young ladies. Safer, as I am susceptible. Also, I am more even-handed in grading that way. “I see,” I say. “My father knows of you. From when you were consulting on behalf of the Gulf Cooperative Logistics Corporation.” “Quite some years ago,” I smile. “I returned to academia.” She nods, then adds, “I’m glad you know the Emirates.” She steps away, back to her table in the corner, leaving me to wonder what that was about.

On the café wall is a depiction of the deformed saint sipping coffee. I asked Emmanuelle once why St. Drogo is the patron saint of coffee houses. She had no answer other than that he is said to have subsisted largely on barley water during the forty years he was walled away due to his deformity. Think about that. Considered so ugly by his townsfolk that they had him walled into a cell attached to the church. Good that he was also considered saintly or likely they would have racked him as a spawn of the devil. This back about 1100 in northern France. Though whether it was France then may be an open question. The story is curious. It raises questions in my mind. And it allows me to procrastinate as I contemplate what did he think about for forty years? Did townsfolk come to talk with him through the wall? Bring him their problems? Obviously they fed him, probably carried away his bodily waste. “Can I clear away your cup?”

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

“Hi, Sam,” greeting Samantha, my favorite barista. “Not getting much work done this afternoon,” she observes of me. “Contemplating Saint Drogo,” I laugh. She looks up at the painting, shakes her head, “At least he’s smiling.” “The coffee must taste good compared to barley water.” Sam laughs. She is a cheerful girl, sparking Emmanuelle to be talkative as well. The two often working side by side, jabbering away. Other baristas at St. Drogo get along with their boss as well but the two of them are especially close. She is of an age with my students, though she’s been working here since she was 16. She asks, “You ready for tomorrow’s classes?” Sam is often curious about the classes I teach; maybe it’s a hankering for classes and learning herself. Or, maybe it’s simply conversation. “A pop test in Dynamics of Cultural Interactions. Returning graded papers in Entrepreneurship and continuing the discussion on fostering innovation while balancing efficiencies. And delving deeper into collectivist versus individualist cultural impacts in Society and Business Culture.” She nods, “Sounds like you have fun.” Then she takes my cup and saucer away.

That evening, back in my apartment on Gulliver, I scramble eggs with chopped cooked asparagus and scallions, and heat leftover risotto to go with it. I eat a lot of beans and rice dishes. Eggs, tofu, and the cheaper cheeses, too. Ham slices are my typical meat, though occasionally it’s ground beef (a pot of chili can be good for a week) or a baked chicken breast when chicken is on sale. If you cut the chicken into strips, a breast can be used for several meals. Cooking at home is cheaper than eating out. At least, what I cook is. Anyway, I enjoy cooking and don’t mind doing dishes, kind of restful. Second Thursday of the month, so I should call Madzie, my wife. She lives in Connecticut. Used to be I’d call every Thursday but that was too often for her. She likes getting out on a Thursday. I suggested we switch to Tuesdays or Sundays but that didn’t fly either. Her partner, Stefania, has some activity on Thursday nights, so that’s what we’re stuck with. Being married to Madzie is sort of a business arrangement. Wasn’t always that way. If we’d had children, likely it wouldn’t be either. Madzie didn’t want kids. Anyway the call isn’t until 8:00; 9:00 in Connecticut. I eat my supper while reading Behave by Robert Sapolsky. I’m almost through with the book, which describes all the known factors from neurotransmitters in the brain to childhood events to cultural impacts on how we act for bad or good. He’s not a believer in free will. The self as an illusion, which is a tough concept to embrace. The phrase ‘the sum is greater than its parts’ is the refrain in my mind as I read his book. Like, just maybe, all the mechanics of the brain’s operations don’t quite capture who we are. Obviously, I’m holding out for free will in many of our decisions and actions, but it’s difficult against his evidence. If there’s time after the call, I may watch a DVD borrowed from the library, either War Witch or Beirut, child soldiers in Africa or secret agents in the Middle East.

“What would you say to a divorce?” asks Madzie. “Divorce? Why?” I’m taken aback. After all this time she wants to end it?

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

She says, “Only 13 states haven’t legalized same-sex marriage.” “Stefania is pressing you?” I can almost hear the nod through the phone’s ether. Instead she says, “A July wedding would be nice, I guess. You could come out for it. Give me away.” “If that’s what you want,” I say reluctantly. “Oh, Auberon, it only makes sense. We’re not truly married. You know that.” “We were,” I almost say ‘once upon a time.’ It seems to sum up the failure of my life. At age 43, an adjunct professor, a marriage in form but not reality, not even in form, just that it helps us both to be employed and in paying taxes by saying we’re married. I long ago decided I was a madness on Madzie’s part in the fight between her upbringing and who she actually is. Polish Catholic versus lover of women. Well, I love women, too, so I understand. She sighs, “We were. You are my friend, Auberon.” “Yes, so I will do what my friend asks.” “Thank you. I’ll initiate it. You’ll need a lawyer, probably.” Expense. I groan, “Really?” “Really,” she says firmly.

After the call I don’t feel like watching a movie.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Chapter 2: Tidbits

Friday classes went pretty well. Some gloom among a subset of students in the Entrepreneurship class over the papers I returned. I believe I owe it to my students not to pull any punches. This is a learning experience after all. The class is considered an easy A. This due to the regular professor who’s on sabbatical, studying entrepreneurship in Europe I’ve been told, though it seems to me he’d be better off in Singapore, mainland China, Taiwan, or South Korea. I don’t have easy A classes. The pop quiz in Dynamics of Cultural Interaction was better received, though a few were caught off-guard. In Society and Business Culture discussion was lively and well-informed, which pleased me greatly. Even Ms. al Razi participated fully, as did Ms. Fu Chuqin and Mr. Acevedo, both of whom struggle with English even more than Ms. al Razi. Of course, I had to temper the voluble Mr. Stroup and Ms. Radley who tend to dominate discussion with their heated, if polite, disagreement. At least, opinion was well-leavened with citations of fact. Something the class now understands I require. My typical method is to present for fifteen minutes, of which a few minutes summarize the prior class and the rest is new material. Or my co-instructor does sometimes if it’s an interdisciplinary class. Then discussion from one to three questions I’ve posed. My guidance is limited to keeping the discussion on track and correcting egregious misstatements or faulty concepts. After thirty or so minutes of discussion, I bring us back by emphasizing major points made in the discussion as they relate to the lesson, plus giving any additional reading or writing assignments. Classes at the Saints are longer as those are only twice a week. Instead of 50 minutes, they run 75. The Whitaker on-line class is a full two and a half hours, once a week, on Monday nights. Lunch hour I’m at the student union, where I manage to eat (grilled cheese and tomato bisque soup today) in between interruptions from those of my students wanting advice, counsel, or other help. This lunchtime it was Ms. Bowers, Mr. Staszak, Mr. Janes from Dynamics; Ms. Nowak from Entrepreneurship; Mr. McAdoo and, inevitably, Ms. Alexis Radley from Culture. Think of lunch as my office hours for students. The only downside of today at LWC is notice of a meeting for tomorrow morning with the Provost, Dean, and department head for the entire BOE department. BOE being Business, Organization, & Economics. I like my weekends free of the colleges. Thinking of that, I wonder if I should be updating my CV. Maybe I’ll be looking for a new assignment depending on tomorrow’s topic. I’m sure rumors abound. As an Adjunct, I’m mostly outside the rumor loop. Finally, now, I am at St. Drogo, home-away-from-home as they say.

“Something going on across the street this evening,” says Ryan, the second-shift lead barista on Fridays. He’s standing near my table looking out the front window watching the line of cars turning into the parking lot across the street.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

The lot serves the Lake Shore Cultural Arts Center: classes, exhibits, performances in dance, voice, theater, fine arts, crafts, and film. A converted building, built in 1902, once a school through the 1940s. I answer, “Isn’t it opening night for the biennial art exhibit?” “Cheese and chardonnay,” he says. “I prefer a zinfandel or, if I must have white, a pinot grigio.” “Well, here’s your mocha,” setting my order on the table. St. Drogo is winding down, heading toward seven, their closing time except on school- year Saturdays. Then Emmanuelle has music in the evening and the places is open until ten. Sells a lot of desserts on Saturdays. “You were late getting here tonight,” Ryan says. “Ambushed by three of my students who are not getting along in doing their joint project.” “Why do you require joint projects? Someone is always the lame one and another always does the bulk of the work.” Experience speaking as Ryan is a graduate student. I nod, “Part of the syllabus for the course. Teamwork emphasis. Entrepreneurship is not my course, I just teach it.” “Professor Thornburn’s normally, right? Easy A.” I sigh, “Supposedly. Less so under my tutelage.” Thornburn is alright in his way, just not much interested in teaching after thirty-five years. Maybe he never was. There’s less fuss from students, the administration, and even parents if you give out A’s. Not a lot of learning either, in my opinion. Ryan Corwin is a Classics student: Mediterranean and Middle Eastern civilizations from a couple millennia back, plus Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. Entrepreneurship is a pretty distant topic to him. He nods, “Need to start cleaning up.” He gestures at Zach manning the counter, a monosyllabic fellow who is relatively new, and maybe not fully trusted yet to know what all needs doing at closing. I glance around, only a half-dozen of us still in place. Make it seven as a woman emerges from the Ladies’ Room to join a fellow at the plush chairs in the rear of the shop. The others I’ve seen in St. Drogo before but not that couple. Maybe they’re going to the Arts Center. Turning back to my laptop, I answer emails and texts while sipping the mocha, trying not to scald my tongue yet wanting to finish it before seven. The emails are mostly from students. The texts are some of my correspondents from overseas. I stay in touch with some thirty or forty semi-regularly via instant messaging, like weixin (wechat in English) for China. Many more on apps like LinkedIn. It takes the forty-five minutes and all of the mocha to get through the correspondence. That done, and exiting St. Drogo, I decide to see the art opening. Being in sports coat, tie, and clean jeans, I’m probably as presentable as most attendees.

Ryan was right. Chardonnay. Merlot, though, too. I accept a glass (plastic) of merlot, gratefully, and don’t mind consuming a half-dozen small squares of cheese, liking the Swiss and the pepper jack best. The rice crackers are tasty too. Could this be supper? As for the art, they are various paintings of watercolors, acrylics, or oils, pen & ink drawings, others in colored pencil, pieces made from fabrics and found-objects, clay sculptures not yet turned into bronze or whatever, some fired to become porcelain. Abstracts

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell predominate, then the surreals, and finally the realistic in varying degrees of realism. Of the surreals and reals, there are cityscapes, landscapes, seascapes, portraits, still lifes, and others (especially animals: birds, horses, and butterflies for the most part). From my viewpoint, about two-thirds is schlock, though some of the schlock is technically competent. At least no jewelry that seem to dominate art fairs. There are pieces I like. There are a few I covet. My basic criterion for art is whether I would want to look at it more than once or twice. That is, will it hold my interest even after I’ve truly looked at it a dozen or more times. “Auberon, what do you think?” A wide gesture encompassing the exhibition space. Joan Davies from the Sociology department, with whom I share an interdisciplinary class. My bias, since I attempt to sketch portraits, is toward some level of realism that includes humans in one form or another. So I answer, “Non-narrative art beguiles me less. Give me Edward Hopper over Jackson Pollock.” “You’ve met my husband before,” says Joan, not really wanting my thoughts on art. “Gerald, this is Auberon Kent. We teach Society and Business Culture together.” Then saying to me, “Gerald is an attorney with Paxton Bradley & Plover.” I guess I knew this, it being perhaps the fourth or fifth time I’ve met Gerald Davies, but it’s good to be reminded. Gerald looks to be in his late fifties, with a boyish cowlick. I’m not sure how much hair I’ll have on top in another fifteen years. “How are you tonight?” I ask. “Fair to middling,” he answers with a smile. “Joanie wants to buy that big colorful abstract.” He’s pointing to the one by Kathleen Herron, titled Going Places, though what the title has to do with all those billowing shades of color I’m not sure. I nod, as if appreciating the piece, must be 4 feet by 6 feet. Imagine having a bare wall that would accommodate such a size. “Would really brighten up a room,” I say. “$6,000,” he says. I nearly choke on my merlot. Especially when Joan adds, “That’s why I love these informal showings away from the galleries. Such bargains.” Is she joking? I see that she’s not. Gerald gives a theatrical sigh, “Okay, dear, in your breakfast nook?” You got to love Lake Shore. Such an affluent suburb. Able to house a high-end liberal arts college and people willing to throw $6,000 to decorate one wall in a breakfast nook. As a tenured Associate Professor, Joan likely earns $70,000, maybe $75,000, with benefits and whatnot pushing her compensation up to about $90,000. Good, but not as much as Madzie, who’s a full professor out east (Mathematics). So likely it’s Gerald as a partner in his firm that’s really raking in the money. Not that I’m fixated on money. Well, maybe a little. I think I feel poor because I live in the 12th wealthiest zip code in America. Or is it the 11th? I’d probably feel better living in a city neighborhood. But then the center of the city is roughly 33 miles south of here. It’s enough to make the journey on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Maybe if the Saints or one of the other universities in the city were my main source of income, I’d move back to a city neighborhood. We’re interrupted by another couple who know the Davies. After a brief introduction, I leave the friends together and go wander the exhibit one last time, hoping to find more cheese and crackers. In my wander I do notice the couple that were at St. Drogo seemingly engrossed

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell by a fabric sculpture of what may be Botticelli’s Venus surrounded by a walrus, a pair of porpoises, and an oversized clam. “May I replace your empty glass?” asks the server, a pert young woman. Probably a LWC student during the day. “Thank you,” I answer, relinquishing my grip on the plastic stem. She says, “I’ve seen you at the café drawing.” “Oh, yes, my sketches.” “I take classes here, life drawing and advanced acrylics,” she answers. “And do some modeling.” “Any of your work on the walls?” “No, though you’ll find a nude of me, not that I’m recognizable,” she makes a face. “You’re not at Lincoln-Willard?” Her laugh is a sharp bark, “No way. Can’t afford it and doubt I’d want to.” I am slightly offended on behalf of LWC. I’m mollified as she hands me a second merlot, and says, “You’re a professor there?” “Adjunct professor. Teaching three classes this semester at LWC.” Gesturing at her tray, I ask “What else do you do?” “Yoga instructor. And I’m getting my massage certificate,” she smiles. I have begun revising her age upward. From young twenties to mid to maybe late. I have found women in their late twenties to early thirties fruitful grounds for companionship. And she is pert with pleasant features, and a good contrast to my earnest academic colleagues. “I haven’t had a massage since my days working in China.” “Therapeutic massage,” she says quickly, perhaps distinguishing herself from the sex workers of China, though, of course, not all masseuses of China are sex workers, maybe not even half. “I’m Auberon Kent,” offering a hand. “Auberon?” as she takes my hand. “My mother had flights of fancy, I’m told. Thus Hippolyte Auberon Kent. I find Auberon less a burden than Hippolyte.” I say this lightly, as if in jest, but truthfully a burden is an understatement. “Why not change your name?” “It is at least distinctive and therefore memorable.” She nods doubtfully. So I ask, “And you?” “Lilith Melchior.” Seeing my look, she chuckles, “Professional name. Actually, I’m simply Julia Caspari. My friends call me Jules.” “May I call you Jules?” She scrutinizes me, “You want to be a friend?” “If you’re offering,” I smile to indicate mild interest. “I’ll think about it.” She circulates away, offering wine.

That was the excitement for the night. I get home, try to persuade myself that cheese tidbits were supper, and put on War Witch to watch. End up making popcorn sprinkled with black pepper and Romano cheese. No one here to complain about my popcorn preference. Later, I read for a while before calling it a night and turning off the bedside lamp.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Settling in and thinking about the server, I make a connection. She said her real name is Caspari, which is the Italian version of Caspar or Gaspar, the first of the three wise men. Her pseudonym is Melchior, the second astrologer from Persia. Maybe she has a pet who’s Balthasar? Or a boyfriend? Not that St. Matthew names the magi. Though does St. Thomas in his apocryphal gospel? Though why St. Thomas is any more apocryphal than St. Matthew, or Mark, Luke, and John for that matter, is beyond my competency. In all, I decide it was a good day. The background gloom I feel likely stems from Madzie wanting a divorce, or, perhaps, no more than tomorrow morning’s meeting. I set that aside and compose myself for sleep.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Chapter 3: Selling Out

Yawning. I suspect I just betrayed my attempt to look attentive. Dean Selfridge is holding forth in her bright animated style, while the Provost, John Abramson, looks grim. But then he always looks grim. As for my colleagues in the department, there are fourteen of them in attendance, including the non-faculty research staff. Missing are Professor Thornburn on sabbatical, Assistant Professor Petropoulos away to give a talk this weekend, the department admins, and all the part-time lecturers. I am the only part-timer here. The topic is re-organization. Perhaps ironic since organization design is one of the department’s areas of competence. Still, the discussion is supposedly preliminary. The push is to orient our department towards a more global view. Perhaps combining with International Studies or, at least, its sub-specialty International Development. This all from mostly the Economics viewpoint. But then Econ is the heart of our department, branching out into Business about 1990 and adding the Organization element in 2005. I figure that’s why I’m invited despite being only an Adjunct; my multicultural interdisciplinary classes having that global mystique. So my job is probably not in jeopardy. “ … Dr. Kent’s Society and Business Culture is an example, done jointly with the Sociology Department, as well his Dynamics of Cultural Interactions with the Anthropology Department.” Dean Selfridge beams at me. A surprise. Balanced by a glare from the department chair, Econ Professor Placek, who ought to be emeritus in my opinion. Apparently that citation from Dean Selfridge is my contribution to the meeting, as it drones on. After an hour, the meeting stutters to a stop, without conclusion. I suspect its sole intent was for the Provost and Dean to gauge the level of resistance in the department to their plans. Actual changes will be worked out privately, with perhaps a sub-committee involving representatives from the affected departments. That’s my guess. To be truthful, there’s little at stake for me in such a change. Unless there is actually a budget issue driving the change. I suppose I could be redundant. The other department having staff to replace my role. That sobers me. I tell myself I bring a unique perspective, given my combination of academic credentials and international business consulting experience. Over five years of full-time consulting, first at BARD Consulting, later at FPK. Fifteen projects with the assignments occurring across thirty-some countries, though the client companies headquartered in only eight. Plus three other consulting gigs since on my own. Small companies in the greater-city area, entrepreneurs whose businesses have outgrown their grasp. Though no new project yet this year. Afterwards, coming down the steps of Flagler Hall, Harper Haliwell says, “Well, you got a pat on the back.” Harper being one of my allies in the department, an Associate Professor of high repute. “Not from Ed Placek.”

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

“Oh, well, Ed, you know,” she shrugs. “He’s Econ through and through. Theory. While you are all Practice.” She grinning at me at her jibe. Though it’s mostly true. I’m not much for theories and rules. What actually works is my emphasis, though I do think a balance must be struck between short-term and long-term goals, and the means of getting to them. “You off to Wisconsin this weekend?” I ask. She and her husband have a place on Lake Geneva. “Barry has the film discussion at the library tomorrow. So likely we’ll do church tomorrow morning. Next weekend go to Wisconsin.” A film buff in a majorly way, Harper’s husband never misses the monthly library discussion. I guess that’s better than being tied to the TV every weekend watching sports. Then she sighs, “Lately Olivia doesn’t much want to go to Lake Geneva, though Tyler still enjoys it.” Her fifteen year old and twelve year old. “Teenage years?” I ask. She chuckles, “I suppose. Weaning herself. That’s our job, getting kids ready to head out in the world.” She adds, “I was tougher on my mom than Olivia is to me.” Not having kids of my own, I can only nod. We part company at the bottom of the steps, off to our own pursuits, then, just as she reaches her car, she calls back to me, “Auberon, are you going to the party at the Munsens this evening?” Professor Munsen of the International Studies Department, one of the college’s internal politicians. Given this morning’s meeting, I suppose I should, though I don’t know Eric Munsen well. “Sort of an open-house, right?” I call back. “Yes. Do come. Give me someone to talk to,” she laughs. Flock of Birds is playing tonight at St. Drogo. I’d rather see them than attend yet another faculty party. I wave, “Okay, you persuade me. I’ll drop in.” “When?” “Party is what? Eight to eleven?” “Die-hards will take it well past midnight, but yeah.” I could see Flock for their first set or the second but not both, I think. “What about you? When will you go?” She gestures, “Not late. Probably at the start for a couple hours.” Too bad, eight to ten roughly the same as Flock. “I’ll get there early, too. For an hour.” “Okay, see you later then.” I wave again and head for my apartment. There is a mild attraction between Harper and me. Maybe more of a vibe than an attraction. She’s a few years older but it doesn’t matter. Neither of us has ever acted on the attraction, and likely never will what with Barry and her kids. Yet it makes a nice frisson to our friendship.

Except for my forays into the city for the Saints or other city outings, my life pretty much revolves around a ten-block square district of Lake Shore. Easy walking distance, as I don’t own a car. College campus, St. Drogo, train station, my apartment, grocery store, the independent bookstore, and so on, are all within this ten block area. You save a lot of money not owning a car. Though I do bike when I need to go further.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

The Munsen place is outside the ten-block area. Out beyond Grissom Park, on the lake. Normally I’d bike it, but it may rain tonight. So it needs to be a taxi. Especially if I’m to catch part of the Flock’s set. I know Uber is an alternative to a taxi, though I don’t understand the logic that permits Uber to compete with taxis. On one hand, the town licenses taxis, and has skill and knowledge requirements for the drivers. The licenses or medallions aren’t cheap. On the other hand is the free-for-all that is Uber. I understand the convenience of Uber, its lower pricing, but also its uneven service quality. Down in the city, taxi service is pretty uneven too. But here, I know most of the dozen or so drivers after years of use. So, for me in Lake Shore, it’s taxis when necessary.

After doing house cleaning at the apartment and lunch, I go to St. Drogo for my afternoon mocha and to sketch for an hour or so. I use 5x7 photos of colleagues, friends, students, and overseas correspondents as my models. Today it’s a photo of Gobnait Macoun, an Irish lady who I worked with on a project in Sweden six years back, as well as one in The Emirates. Yes, Gobnait, who everyone called Nait. If I understood it correctly both her given name and family name refers to smiths, like in blacksmith. She being originally from Traighli in Kerry, though living in Dublin when I knew her. A big woman, with a great laugh, a fluffy mane of red hair, and a sharp mind, whose presence set clients at ease. I suppose part of my enjoyment in sketching is knowing the individuals I draw. Observing closely their features, and trying to capture expressions. It’s a bit like meditating when you concentrate so fully. As I complete the sketch, Emmanuelle comes and sits with me, which is unusual. Sitting I mean, as she often comes by to exchange greetings. She says quietly so only I can hear, “I’m thinking of selling out. Retiring. I know I’ll miss it after doing this for eleven years, but I think it’s time.” I’m surprised. I know she had some unspecified health issues last year, and was out for several weeks, leaving Samantha to oversee the shop. I hope that’s not why she’s thinking of giving up St. Drogo’s. “Do you have any offers?” “I wanted to ask you how best to go about it. I could go to a commercial real estate broker or try one of those online business sellers. But I’d prefer to sell to someone I know who cares about St. Drogo. You understand?” “So you’re putting out feelers through the ‘friends of St. Drogo’, right?” I smile. She chuckles, “Yes, I guess you could say that.” “I’d be happy to make some inquiries on your behalf.” “You wouldn’t be interested yourself?” “Interested? I doubt I have the wherewithal to buy in.” Though truthfully, I do have an IRA for retirement, a few investments, and some other monies set aside for emergencies, but probably not enough. Besides, I’m not sure I want to be tried down to the kind of hours Emmanuelle works each week. If that were the case, I’d rather buy a bookshop. A Gallic shrug to Emmanuelle’s shoulders, she still being a French woman despite coming to the U.S. with her family in 1969 at age 13. “Maybe not so much as you think.” “You work harder than I do,” I say.

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“Harder than you want?” Another shrug, “Is okay if you enjoy the work, right?” Emmanuelle pats my arm, “Give it some thought. Is not urgent. Sometime this year or next.” She gets up, work to do. Change is inevitable, of course, but I don’t want St. Drogo to change. Not that what I want matters. I look at the Saint’s portrait on the wall. I could swear he winked at me.

Walking home, I’m thinking about Emmanuelle Brouillet. I’d always assumed she was originally Parisian. I don’t know why. For all I know she could be from Sebourg or the nearest city, which is what, maybe Valenciennes. On the Belgian side it’s probably Mons. Wasn’t it something about an elder brother? Something Emmanuelle said once. Oh, we were talking about 1968, that incredible year. Like ancient history to most of us born on or after that year. But Emmanuelle said it was why her family left France, her brother in trouble with the authorities for his protest actions as a university student in ’68. Maybe only the brother was in Paris then? I’d like to help Emmanuelle. What is St. Drogo’s worth? A hundred thousand? Less or more? It’s a lively business. Students making a steady clientele, plus artists and performers from the Arts Center, and the neighborhood folks. Oh, and students’ parents at various times of the year. Good location. I try working it out in my head. Call it 100 customers a day, recognizing that’s low and that all days aren’t the same. Say the average sale is $5.00, like an Americano and a blueberry muffin. That’s $500 a day. Open 7 days a week, making it $3,500, times 4.3 weeks a month or $15,050, times 12 months. Let’s see that’s $150,050 plus $30,100 for a total of $180,150 a year. Less costs, call that 85%, leaving a net of 15%. Which is about $18,000 plus $9,000, so $27,000 for a year. Wow, my numbers must be off. She’s got to be making twice that, at least. 200 customers a day? Or an average receipt is more like $7.50? All those cheesecake slices sold on a Saturday night. Shaking my head, I can’t see working so hard for so little. But then, I don’t make all that much more than $27,000. Especially this year with no consulting work on the side.

“Glad you could make it, Auberon,” says Eric Munsen, welcoming me into his home. “I think Harper is out in the kitchen with the other BOE’s and some Sociology types.” “Wouldn’t miss it, Eric. Thanks for hosting.” He waves me on as other are coming up the walkway. The place is filling rapidly with faculty, including a number of graduate students, mostly the TA’s, as well as everyone’s significant other. Not me, of course, no Madzie here. It’s a big house, well appointed, and its various first floor rooms manage to accommodate those here and those still arriving. I meant to be here on the dot of eight, but lost track of the time so am later than I would have liked. That’s the trouble with reading a book I’m enjoying. In this instance James Clapper’s Facts & Fears. It occurs to me that a person as distant from the department as Eric Munsen has noted the friendship between Harper and myself. Should that be a concern? Still, I make my way to the kitchen, finding Harper, Joan Davies, and some others debating and imbibing. Surprisingly Carolyn Selfridge — the Dean — is with them. “You made it,” says Harper, smiling.

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“Can’t stay long, though. Flock of Birds is playing at St. Drogo.” “What’s they’re music?” asks Todd Blinderstaff, one of the Sociologists. “A cross between Rock, Folk, and vaudeville,” I answer. “Sort of camp,” adds Dean Selfridge. I didn’t know she was a fan. “Is the Mr. Dean here?” I ask. “Phil is out on the patio where the serious drinking and toking is going on,” she says with a laugh. “Too true,” comments Joan Davies. I’m guessing her husband is out there, too. Maybe Harper’s as well. The spouses, as non-academics, go to enough of these parties to know each other and stick together in self- defense. “So who were you roasting before I arrived?” “You,” laughs Harper. “Not really,” says Joan. “It was Fred Thornburn. You were a peripheral subject.” “Story of my life.” We all like to think we’re the hero of our story, while in reality some of us are the Boswells to the Johnsons or, if you prefer, the Tolsons to the Hoovers. I have a glass of red wine placed in my hand by Amy G who is the International Studies admin, she being distinguished from Amy W in Admissions. With thanks I take a sip, a decent malbec. The next 45 minutes is spent chatting with sundry as I wander among the guests before circling back to say my good nights to Harper and the rest of the BOE/Sociology gang. As I’m about to go out the front door, having missed the host or his wife, Amy G catches me, “Dr. Kent.” “Hi, Amy.” “Professor Munsen would like to meet with you sometime this coming week. He has an opening on Thursday at four-fifteen or Friday at three-thirty.” “Does he ever give you time off, Amy G?” Her face flushes. Rather than embarrass her further, or myself, I quickly add, “I’d prefer Friday as I’m at the Saints in the city on Thursday. Three-thirty should be doable after my Dynamics class. I assume this has to do with the merger talks?” “Just touching base, given the Provost’s plans,” she answers. Likely angling to be chair if the departments are merged, I think. “Alright.” “I’ll send you a reminder on Thursday. Do I have your mobile number?” Her hands being busy with her phone, filling in the schedule. I give her my number and she quickly adds it on her contacts list. Observing, I note that she’s not unattractive in a mousy admin way. I momentarily wonder if Professor Munsen dandles her, but dismiss the idea. He’s too much the politician. I think I’ve seen too many movies where the plain assistant yearns for her charismatic boss. Anyway, Eric Munsen is surrounded by younger better-looking grad students.

By the time I get to St. Drogo, there’s only a half-hour of music remaining. Flock is four women and one fellow on drums. I think they were originally five women but one dropped out. The lead singer is Makayla Jones, though Lauren Howell sings as well on her songs. Actually all back each other up and do some leads. Yet Makayla is unmistakably the group’s spokesperson.

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Sam brings me a mocha without being asked. Whispers, “On the house.” Something she or Emmanuelle do once every few weeks. Sam supervising tonight, though it’s unusual for Emmanuelle to be off on a Saturday evening. I asks, “Emmanuelle is out tonight?” Sam hesitates, nods, says, “Not a good day for her.” Then Sam is off to serve another customer. Is Emmanuelle’s malady of last year re-occurring? It worries me, but as I’m sort of a Flock of Birds groupie, I forego the worry to enjoy the music. Several of their songs I particularly like: Moon Above the Lake; He Said, She Said; Robin Redbreast; and Tangiers in Wartime being some of them. The new one (‘world debut’ in their words) is catchy but with a point, too, The Good Whore’s Lament. They end with another favorite, Bywater Blues. The applause is loud, with numerous whistles and shrieks of appreciation. The crowd lingers and mingles for a time, some exchanging quips with the band members, as the band and sound man break down instruments and equipment. Most everyone is out by ten-fifteen, given the closing time. Sam had gestured to me to sit, so I am waiting. On her way out, Makayla stops by my table, “We’re playing at Fredo’s in the city next Saturday. Show starts at ten.” “Okay. I should be able to make it. Their cover charge is ten bucks still?” “For you, Dr. Kent, I’ll get you put on the pass list,” she grins, knowing my frugal ways. She was in my class at the Saints the first year I taught there. “Then I’ll definitely come,” smiling. I greet the others in the band as they go by, Lauren, Ashley, Jesse, the drummer, Brandon, and the sound guy, Jimmy. By then Zach is also gone, and it’s just Sam and me in the place where she’s doing some final readiness for tomorrow morning’s opening, which is likely Ryan’s task. I get up and join her at the counter, “What’s up, Sam?” “Emmanuelle is selling the place.” “She told me. Not urgent she said.” Sam sniffs, “Maybe.” “Is she ill?” I ask. Pursing her lips, maybe considering if she’s betraying a confidence, Sam answers, “She’s supposed to go in for tests again this coming week.” “Not cancer I hope.” She shakes her head no, “They’re not sure. She said maybe it’s RSD.” “RSD? I don’t know what that is.” Sam waves a hand, “I’m not sure what it is. Started after last year’s surgery. She gets burning pains, swelling, skin is sensitive to the touch, like even the brush of light clothing is painful.” “Oh, that’s too bad. All over her?” Hesitating again. Finally saying, “Mostly her lower abdomen, groin, upper thighs. After last year’s hysterectomy.” “There’s a cure? Or treatment?”

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She shrugs, “I’m not sure.” She pauses, then adds, “Anyway, if she sells, I want to buy the place.” That’s a surprise. Well, it’s Sam’s work home but surely she doesn’t have the money. She must see my expression, says, “Not outright by myself. My sister will loan me some money. I have some money set aside, from when my mom died. But I need more and no bank is likely to loan me money.” I can see where this is going. I’ve known Sam since moving to Lake Shore in 2014. I like her. But I don’t really know her. I knew she had an older sister but not much else. Well, she plays guitar, has a boyfriend, Niven, and she works hard, and is cheerful. Optimistic. But loan her money? She sees me considering. Says, “You’d be a partner.” I want to say ‘why me?’ only I hate the idea of disappointing her. That’s a problem I have. I’ve loaned or given money to a number of women, especially when my earnings were good as a consultant. Overseas, there’s such a need, in India, China, the Middle East. Kausayla, who was the hotel maid the year I was in Mumbai, who needed money for her brother’s schooling. The fuwuyuan, Wang Xiaohong, in Shenzhen, who wanted to study English so she could get a better position. The girl in Dubai, Badr, who had medical bills. “Well, I could help, Sam. I’m not sure how much.” She nods, says, “I need $50,000 more or, maybe, $75,000.” She adds, “The extra for insurance, licensing, and everything. Maybe some refurbishing.” Here I was thinking I might part with $1,000. Isabella’s birthday is coming up and I always send her $100. She’s in Spain, a past lover. “I don’t know, Sam. I’ll need to give it some thought. A sum like that is probably too rich for me.” I should just say no. “Emmanuelle said you have a brother with money. Could he help?” Rudiger, my younger brother, the multi-millionaire so he says. Maybe he is. “We’re not really on good terms,” I admit. The thought hits me that Madzie would more likely loan me money. I suppress a sigh, “Let me give it some thought, Sam.” She nods, not pressing it, maybe not even disappointed. Low expectations of me, I suspect. “Timing?” I ask. “When would you need the money?” Not sure why I’m persisting. “By December,” she answers. “I’m pretty sure Emmanuelle wants out by January or, at least, the first quarter of the year.” So soon. Sam goes on, “She talked with the Raineys. You know them? Peter and Deirdre? She’s tall. He’s always in gray. You know who I mean, they come in most often around four-thirty. He’s a commodities trader, I think. Something like that. I’m not sure what she does.” I nod, not completely sure, but if it’s who I think she means, they’re well ensconced in the Lake Shore community, grew up here, seem to know many people. “Anyway, they’re interested. Want to turn it into a restaurant really.” A grimace crosses her face. “Deirdre talked to me about staying on if they go for it. She’s pushing it, wants Peter out of commodities ‘cause of his ulcer.” St. Drogo as a restaurant? I share her grimace, “I’ll see what I can do, Sam.”

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We walk out together, bidding each other goodnight. After locking up, she walks north while I go west. I feel a little bad for Sam. Samantha Godwin as owner? Well, she knows the business after six or seven years here.

My brother inherited the dairy farm. Dad must have thought he’d carry on with the enterprise. Dad had given up on me doing so, for which I can’t blame him. Though I doubt Dad expected Rudiger would promptly sell the farm, using the money to launch his real estate business. Not that it was a large farm by today’s standards of commercial farming. Only fifty-two cows. I can remember a number of them well. Who was loving, who cranky, who curious, who extra messy, who playful. And their names, Dad favoring names ending in -ie, thus Mollie, Hattie, Winnie, Susie, Nellie, Lizzie, Bessie, and, yes, we had an Elsie. Only one was different, Dad had a Lula. I think she was his favorite, a good milker and she loved his whistling. I like cows. Better than chickens by far. But the work on a farm and the worry is endless. Mostly it’s the worry. Never enough money put aside that a bad run of years won’t put you under. Weather, blight, infestations, hoof and mouth or some other disease, but mostly commodity pricing, so many worries, with debt atop them all. Sure, I have worries now, but, in truth, most of them are trivial. So I understand Rudiger getting out from under all those worries. Still, I haven’t been back to that neck of the woods in a decade or more. Too sorrowful, with farm and family gone.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Chapter 4: An Innocuous Task

Sunday was a quiet day. Oh, I did an hour or so of class preparation, mostly for Monday’s Whitaker class. Wandered over to the campus to go to the art museum and gallery. A goodly collection, especially of late 19th century and early 20th century paintings across modernists and traditionalists. The collection’s quality in large part due to a bequest from a wealthy alum who began collecting in the 1940’s. I get over there at least once a month. Pick out a couple paintings, mostly portraits, to study in detail. Do some sketches of my own, both as copy and as imitations of style. Then dropped in at St. Drogo, happy to see Emmanuelle back at work. That was pretty much Sunday. Oh, stopped at the bookstore to browse, as well, and took in a movie at the theater. Saw Crazy Rich Asians. Not as good as the novel, but what do you expect? Is envy why we are so fascinated by the wealthy? Or, looking for an avenue that would take us there? Tips on how to succeed. Though much of that story is about inherited wealth. Or is it just vicarious voyeurism, glimpsing the life we’ll never know? It doesn’t seem to me that extreme wealth generates the best character. But then, extreme poverty may not either. I guess I’m prosaic, supporting middle-class values. You know, all things in moderation. Thoughts before falling asleep.

A stodgy Monday, getting the kids in the classes to come alive, be alert to ideas. Hard work getting the discussions on point with worthy exchanges of views. So walking into St. Drogo, I am ready to fulfill my craving for a mocha. Not every café serves a good mocha. I like mine to have a bite between a rich dark chocolate and a robust coffee. Needs the right balance. And I add cinnamon. Too many places have some paltry equivalent to milk chocolate laced with relatively weak espresso. Today I go with an almond biscotti as well. A little more money but what the hell. Fortify myself for the marathon session this evening doing the Whitaker course. Monday is the quiet day at St. Drogo, too. A good day for sketching.

I am holding a photo of Jiang Lienhua to the light from the window, scrutinizing the shadowed side of the face, finding the left ear lobe covered partially by the flowing hair. Turn back to the sketch of the face, adding the detail of the lobe. Today is the preliminary sketching, which I do in light pencil lead. Tomorrow, I’ll complete the drawing using colored pencils. Giving the hair texture with a few strokes. Pause, sip the dregs of the mocha. Listening to my music, a raucous song by ZZ Ward. Startled, as a fellow standing next to me says something. Pulling the ear buds off, I hear the fellow repeat, “Marvelous touch. You really capture the image.” “Oh, thank you.” Every so often other customers offer compliments. Those who frequent the café are used to seeing me drawing so it’s usually an occasional customer. “Would you care to see one of the finished drawings?” The tall guy says, “Sure.”

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Flipping back a page on the pad, knowing that the drawing of Gobnait turned out rather well. Not all of them do. Then to a couple more sketches, leafing back. The fellow points, “Another Chinese lady from the look of her.” “Yes, Wang Xiaohong.” I’m guessing the guy is a good five to eight years younger than myself, pretty sure he was in the café this past Friday as well. The couple that went on to the Arts Center. I look about, sure enough, his companion from Friday is at a table on the far side of the room. “Oh, you know the lady?” “Yes, a friend. I worked in China off and on for several years, when I was consulting.” “Must be nice to be there at such length,” a smile on the fellow’s face. He holds out a hand, “I’m Fletcher Pritchard.” “Auberon Kent,” shaking hands. Pritchard says, “That photo isn’t from when you worked in China.” Pointing at the 5x7. “No, my friends send me their photos from time to time. I send back pictures of my drawings.” Probably it’s the car Lienhua is leaning against in the photo that makes it apparent that the photo is new. “They must like that.” “I think so. At least when I make a good likeness.” “You mind if I sit with you for a few minutes?” Pritchard asks, as he pulls out the chair opposite, not waiting for a response as he takes a seat. Actually I’d would rather complete today’s sketch. Time is limited on Monday’s due to the evening class. The light from the window changes, too, with late afternoon. There’s not many others in the café. Emmanuelle is doing dishes at the sink back behind the curtain while Sam is making a latte to go for a customer by the counter. Other than that, there’s a couple students in the rear plush chairs, maybe romancing each other, a single on a laptop by the side window, who’s one of the actors from across the street, and a regular at the front table near the door, an elderly neighborhood lady who comes in every day to read The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal while she has a large cappuccino Pritchard clears his throat, smiles gently and says, “Seems like you have 33 correspondents in China using weixin for instant messaging. Another 62 on LinkedIn, not counting duplicates with weixin. Plus half-dozen or so on Facebook who aren’t on weixin or LinkedIn. Of course, that’s not counting your correspondents elsewhere — India, Korea, Thailand, Japan, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Singapore, plus the Europeans and Latin Americans and sundry other places, call it another 15 countries, nor your fellow Americans, including the Chinese-Americans and Indian-Americans.” This statement startles me, as I bleat, “How do you know this? Who are you?” “In all, you have 227 foreign correspondents and an additional 278 in the U.S.” Pritchard smiles, “I’m with the government, Professor Kent.” “The U.S. government?” Pritchard chuckles, “What, you were expecting the Chinese government?” He raises a finger, “Perhaps a more important question is why do I know this.” “You have credentials?” suspicious now.

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“Certainly,” grins Pritchard. He takes a slim leather case from the inside pocket of his jacket, holds it open for me to inspect. Sure enough, a government agency, some section of Homeland Security. Surely it’s the NSA that monitors online transmissions? “I always assumed my international messaging was being monitored.” Though it does occur to me that the fellow could show me any sort of credentialing and how would I know if it’s legitimate? “Wise of you, although more than one of your messages is, shall we say, indiscreet, given that supposition.” Pritchard chuckles, “But our interest isn’t prurient. No, the one thing that does interest us is that your network in China has grown even after your consulting assignments over there ended. I should add, in India and elsewhere as well, say the Emirates.” “Friends introduce their friends to me. Mostly to improve their English.” Maybe I’m adjusting slightly to the idea of being contacted by someone in the government. A surprise, yes, but not unthinkable. Still, I don’t much like it. “Would you mind if my partner joins us?” Turning he gestures to his companion, who rises and steps over. She borrows a chair from a nearby table and sits down with us. It gives me time to consider all this. Sure I have international correspondents but I’m a U.S. citizen. There must be tens of thousands of scholars and business people in the U.S corresponding overseas. “I’m Joyce Nierman,” says the woman, holding out her hand. We shake perfunctorily. Pritchard continues, “Here’s what we’d like to have happen. We want to expand your network a bit further. More friends of friends so to speak. For the most part you do as you’ve been doing, your hellos, how-are-you, your encouragement, your help with questions of English usage or other advice. Pretty much just as you do with all your friends. Maybe even occasionally sending some small sums by Western Union, like you’ve done for a handful of the others. Every so often, we will text you separately and ask you to send a message on our behalf. They’ll be innocuous messages. Maybe a few words spaced at specific intervals within a longer message. You understand?” Pritchard is speaking softly now, earnestly. Nodding, I say, “I understand what you want, but why me?” Stalling, trying to think this through. Joyce Nierman cocks her head to one side, perhaps to judge my reaction, speaks up, “You’re safe. You’ve not done an assignment over there for almost four years now, though before that you spent quite a lot of time consulting in China on organizational design. During all this, you’ve been messaging back and forth with your former colleagues, your ex-client’s staff, people you met over there, friends of these people. Anymore, you travel to Hong Kong once a year for a week or ten days at a time, meeting some of your friends there, several of whom come down from Shenzhen where you used to work to see you. We’ve watched. The Chinese have watched. Possibly others have watched. And you’ve come up innocent. A bit of a soft- hearted do-gooder who likes women a little too much.” The latter said with a derisive curl to her lip. I’m taken aback, “Watched me?” Now Pritchard shrugs, “Not the whole time you’re there; just some tracking.” He smiles again, “You’ll be 44 come late fall, right?” “Yes,” saying it cautiously.

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“Anymore 44 is hardly even middle-aged. At 38, I’m just a kid,” chuckles Pritchard. “You’ve got a good twenty years yet when you could be plenty useful to your government.” “I’m not much for government,” I say, thinking this is all crazy. Pritchard laughs, “No, I’d say not. We read your blog and postings. What were you saying the other day? I may not get the quote 100%. Something like ‘All governments distrust the people they govern, but in China it goes beyond distrust to paranoia.’ Is that right?” “Yes, you got it.” I complete the quote, “Therefor it’s logical for people to distrust their governments.” The woman speaks up again, “I’m guessing appeals to patriotism won’t much work for you. Nor offering you money, although this comes with a stipend. My thought is that you would be willing to help people overseas, in China, in India, wherever. Not some abstraction, like the People. But individuals, some you know and some just like the individuals you know. Women in their twenties and thirties mostly. Some working at major private firms, like FuHua where you did your consulting; others at the state-owned companies or the government itself; some in modest jobs — receptionists, porters and cleaners, a masseuse or two, one or another waitress. What do you call them in Mandarin? Fuwuyuan?” Nierman gestures, hands outspread, “You’d be a safe conduit for such people. Virtually no risk. Other routes might expose them, put them in danger.” I confess to feeling stung, even as I discount what I’m being told, “I do have male friends overseas, as well.” Pritchard agrees, grinning, “Yes, 4 out of the 33 on weixin. More on LinkedIn and Facebook.” He looks to Nierman, then back to me, “No, I think we’re best off if your network grows to include additional ladies. Referrals, like that high school teacher who was a classmate of your former colleague or the cousin of the masseuse you frequented.” It comes to me that there must be contacts ‘They’ want to introduce that are already known to one or more of my friends and acquaintances. Otherwise, does this make any sense? Who among my friends? The only one who comes to mind is the former law professor who doesn’t feel safe practicing in China on behalf of women’s rights. Anyone’s rights for that matter, though her interest is in women and children. There is the translator who travels frequently to the Middle East, most recently in Dubai. Or the HR professional that FuHua sent over to Ethiopia. Who knows really? I’m not sure. For all I know, it could be the one prostitute with whom I stay in touch. “Just in China, right?” Nierman shakes her head no, but Pritchard shrugs, “Chinese, maybe not all in China.” “Just doing what I do anyway? Chatting with friends, staying in touch?” Pritchard nods, “Just that, with us suggesting some words to embed in a particular sequence every so often to one or another of your contacts. Probably in the future, a few months out in time. Once a couple additions are well-integrated into your network.” It does sound pretty safe. The idea is beginning to intrigue me. What harm could come from it? I chat with a few friends daily, most less often — every few days, weekly, monthly, only on holidays. Some go through needy spells, talk it up more — looking for a job, needing advice about English, business, a lover, or simply lonely, maybe needing encouragement. One

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell acquaintance has a brother who is terminally ill, and every so often she needs to unload her grief. LinkedIn and Facebook can be anytime, but the wechat, the instant messaging, is usually at the start and end of the day given the time difference between China and the U.S. Seeing my hesitation, Nierman says, “You use a Huawei phone, correct?” “Yes, for now. I’ve had Samsung and Nokia in the past. A Blackberry back when working overseas.” “Well, let’s assume that China is tracking you on your Huawei mobile as well. We’ll give you a second phone, something secure. From time to time, you’ll get a text on that phone from a specific source. The text will let you know who and what to message. Don’t be surprised if some of your current friends are to receive our messages as well as one or more of the new additions.” Her manner isn’t furtive but is somewhat guarded as she explains, voice low. I doubt any of my contacts are agents, so perhaps the required messaging is a dodge when sent to an existing contact. Well, out of several hundred contacts across all three social media, who knows if someone is already a stringer for a government. It’s not inconceivable that one or two of my Chinese contacts provide information as requested by the Chinese government or the Communist Party. Pritchard picks up the instructions, “You don’t use Twitter, YouTube, Instagram, or other messaging. Please don’t start other media with your contacts.” “I do send emails sometimes, usually if doing research on behalf of someone and sending them documents,” I tell them “Yes, we’ve noticed. Using your Yahoo account and not the Gmail account. That’s okay. So far it’s pretty much researching business topics or employment possibilities, right?” “Yes.” Pritchard shrugs, “That doesn’t hurt.” Somehow it’s as if I have already agreed to do this. Makes me realizes I am going to agree, though I’m not sure why. “When would it start?” “Why not today?” smiles Pritchard, placing a cell phone on the table. “The source you can rely on is Mango 224-216-9237. Never call the number as no one will answer it.” “Is there a number I should call if something goes awry?” “No, all you need to do is send a message to any five of your contacts repeating the word parrot twice.” “Parrot?” Pritchard nods, “Well, that’s all then. Oh, and you do need to keep our connection to you confidential. Wish you the best of luck.” They stand up, the cell phone still on the table in front of me. Then the woman, Nierman, adds, “The stipend is $750 a month.” She says, “You’ll be receiving a letter from Mango East-West Enterprises. An NDA to sign. Instructions on setting up direct deposit for the stipend.” I wonder if she uses the word stipend because it sounds academic, rather than pay or, even, retainer. They both smile and swiftly exit the café. Slowly I reach over and pocket the small phone, much smaller than my Huawei phone.

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It occurs to me afterwards that Pritchard and Nierman are probably not their true names. I could ignore whatever messages are sent to me. Maybe write parrot, parrot, and decline the role to whomever contacts me. The $750 a month would help. What’s that, $9,000 a year. It could even be put to helping Samantha buy St. Drogo. After mulling this over, I turn back to my drawing. Jiang Lienhua is a sweet lady, full of merriment. One of my acquaintances over there that I like best. Would doing what Pritchard and Nierman want jeopardize Lienhua and the others? I hope not. The task seems pretty innocuous. What was the word they used for me? Innocent.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Part Two: No Longer Trivial

Chapter 5: Headache

October and fall is definitely here. Leaves coming down, scattering over lawns and roadways. It’s been several weeks since meeting Pritchard and Nierman. Nothing in the way of contacts. The documents from Mango East-West Enterprises, LLC, arrived, which I duly signed and sent back after reading them carefully. A pretty standard non-disclosure agreement. Sent back to a post office box. Of course, I looked up the company on the internet. Didn’t find anything. On LinkedIn, I did get an invite from a fellow in China, but we had seven mutual acquaintances in common, and he formerly worked for FuHua. I accepted the invite. I doubt he has anything to do with Mango. I’m riding the train back from the city. Classes at the Saints went okay. The more popular course there is Aspects of Organization, which delves into fundamentals as applied in business, education, charities, and the like. I introduce some cultural dimensions as well. The other class at the Saints isn’t really my bailiwick, being a political science course, but it’s pretty basic so I’m staying ahead of the students. Standards for acceptance are lower at the Saints, so in some ways it’s an extension of high school for many of the students. For the poli-sci class, I’m substituting for a fellow out on suspension. Accused by a girl in the class of sexual harassment. That’s as much as I’ve been told. I don’t know which student is the accuser. Nor whether the accusation is justified. Supposedly the investigation is ongoing. Needless to say, I am very circumspect and formal in that class, but then I tend to be. Anyway, I always feel relieved to be heading home after the morning at the Saints. Normally I read while on the train, but I’m tired today, with a light headache. Not sure if I’m coming down with something. Too early in the season for flu? One of the hazards of teaching is exposure to all the maladies students bring to class. I wake from a doze to hear, “Dr. Kent, right?” We’re pulling out of the Ravenswood stop, and I recognize the girl who is now sitting down next to me, though her name escapes me for the moment. The girl serving wine at the Arts Center biennial. “Hi,“ I manage to say, “down in the city today?” “Modeling,” she answers. “A morning session.” “Is that unusual?” “Yeah, usually it’s in the evenings or on the weekend. The studio is hosting a modeling marathon these four days. Three hours for each model, morning, afternoon, and evening. I had the first session, so fewer artists. Some coming in late.” She is smiling, “Now that’s out of the way and I’ve got the rest of my day free.” “In the nude?” She laughs, “Yep. In my altogether.” She adds, “You were teaching this morning?” “Yes, my two classes at the Saints.” “So you’re free for the day, too?”

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There is a suggestion in that question, I feel. I realize I’m not feeling as tired or headachy at I was. “I suppose so. Usually, I do some class prep and then go over to St. Drogo for sketching on Thursday afternoons.” “You ever try drawing from live models instead of photos?” “Pretty hard isn’t it? I get to measure out proportions working from a photo.” She shrugs, “Not if you allow your eye and hand to work together, getting down what you’re seeing without over-thinking it.” “I draw portraits. Faces. I’ve not drawn figures.” “Something new. Or you can stick with the model’s face. At least, if the pose permits it.” She pulls out her mobile, scanning for something. I see she’s bringing up her calendar, “Nothing scheduled in Lake Shore for now. You want one of the drop in spots not a regular course. Jack Guilfoyle’s studio would do it. I’m there on November 4. It’s a three-hour session, in twenty-minute poses. You could come. You want the room number at the Center?” Why not? “Sure. What are the times?” “One to four in the afternoon.” She shows me the room number, and I note it down. From the text, I see her name, too. Lilith, though that doesn’t sound right. I asks, “How about your other activities? Weren’t you getting a massage certificate? And teaching yoga?” “You remember. Yes, by mid-December I’ll have the certificate. Yoga is three days a week, Monday through Wednesday. In Highland Park.” Then I recall, Lilith is a professional name. She’s Julia. Jules, I think. We chat further. By the time we’re pulling into her stop, which is Highwood, we’re on the topic of éclairs since she intends to stop at the bakery by the station. I’m saying, “Seems to me you could use that same puff pastry, what’s it called? Choux dough, I think. You could use it to make entrée éclairs. Say with a curry glaze and a filling of salmon and shallots mousse or a mushroom pudding.” She is laughing at the idea, “Cauliflower gratin pastry filling.” “Sure, probably be pretty tasty.” She gathers her back pack. Says, “Maybe I’ll see you at St. Drogo sometime.” “Late afternoons, I’m usually there.”

By the time I reach St. Drogo, I’m pretty hungry. The headache is back. Not sure I want to face a whole sandwich. I go for a small pumpkin soup with their ‘everything’ crackers, a cappuccino for a change, surprising Sam, and an almond biscotti. I explain to her, “The mocha is bigger than a small cappuccino. Not sure I want that much caffeine today.” “You could get decaf,” she says. The look on my face causes her to chuckle agreeably. We are on good terms. Well, we’ve always been but I lent her $10,000 a few days ago after seeing the first direct deposit from Mango. Told her I didn’t know if I could do more but hoped it would help her buy St. Drogo. Carrying the wooden tray with soup bowl and all, I’m able to get my favorite table, against the wall in front where there’s plenty of light, with an electric outlet next to it, yet out of the heavy in-and-out customer traffic. Settled in, laptop open and booted-up, I scan emails as I eat. Answer several, students for the most part. Then my mobile phone gives a beep,

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell followed by a couple more. Expecting a text from someone, I find it’s messages via wechat. Early for China, going on four in the morning there. One of my semi-regular correspondents, Penelope, works at my former client, FuHua. Her Chinese name is Li Panpan, but prefers I use Penelope. Many college-educated Chinese take English names. Part of their educational practices starting in grade school, though some of the names are oddities, like Titan Fong or Moonlight Guo, both of whom I’ve met. Penelope is asking if I’m willing to connect to a classmate of hers from when she was in high school. The woman, Juanita, wants to improve her English. The rest of the messages assure me Juanita is a friendly, cute, and smart. A good person. With the Chinese name of Luo Jiaohua. I answer sure, while wondering whether this is simply a friend of Penelope’s or a Mango candidate. Within minutes I have an invite from Juanita, which I accept. We exchange greetings and some get-acquainted facts. She is using simplified Chinese characters, for which I use the weixin translation feature as my knowledge of Chinese characters is meager and rusty. I reply in English, which she is likely translating at her end. The translation apps are imperfect so occasionally will lead to misunderstandings, but here our introductions are simple enough. Rather than FuHua, Juanita works for Tencent, which owns wechat among many other social media, online entertainment, and internet holdings. She works in their AI research. A photo shows a short slim woman, in her mid-twenties at least although looking much younger. Would certainly be carded in any bar in the U.S. And Penelope is right, she is cute. I pretty much conclude she’s a Mango contact. Working in AI, what could be likelier? So it looks like I’ll be earning my stipend.

The Clapper book that’d I’d been reading in late evenings talked at one point about the Chinese government hacking into the personnel data of the U.S. The breach wasn’t discovered for quite some time so the Chinese had ample opportunity to gather and examine the records of the millions who work for the U.S. here and abroad. Somewhere else I’d read that our intelligence network in China had been rolled up, with agents disappearing. If I recall right, the latter was in 2012 and the data breach was discovered in 2014. Thinking about Luo Jiaohua — Juanita — I wonder if she is part of a new effort to re- build our intelligence assets there. What would cause someone to betray their country? In my experience, the people there are fiercely proud of China. Not necessarily of the government or the Communist party, but of the county, its heritage and people. Of course, there are many loyal to the government and even more to the Party as well. The corruption at many levels of government turned some against the Party, but I’m guessing that’s been ameliorated to a degree by Xi Jinping’s anti-corruption campaign of the last five years. President, General Secretary of the Party, Chairman of the Central Military Commission — the authoritarian paramount leader, vying with Mao Zedong and Deng Xiaoping for his place in China’s history. All this is mostly speculation on my part. Juanita may be no more than what Penelope said, an old high school classmate wanting to improve her English. She wouldn’t be the first of my correspondents wanting to practice English.

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Arriving at my apartment, I leaf through the day’s mail, most of it advertising which I junk. One letter, though, is from a law office. Thick. I open it with my heart fluttering. Divorce papers with a cover letter. Why am I still in love with Madzie? Hopeless. Is it stubbornness on my part? Afraid to move on? I don’t know.

Eating supper later, I try reading. Can’t seem to get my mind on the book, a novel titled Housegirl. It’s good, yet in this moment failing to hold my interest against the lump inside my chest and the headache that’s stronger now. An hour later I am vomiting into the toilet. Hugging a ceramic bowl is cold. I’m shivering, yet sweaty. My stomach heaves again even though nothing is left in me. Painful heaving. Afterwards, I lie on my bed. Dizziness. I think I may have a fever. Pull the comforter up around me, though I haven’t undressed yet. Wake at 2:07 to stagger to the bathroom. Now it’s my bowels giving way. Teeth chattering. Soon enough back in bed. Pulling the extra blanket up and around me.

I place a call to school at 4:15 a.m., leaving a message, down ill and cancelling classes for Friday. No doubt some students will be pleased. I don’t feel any pleasure, my body all aching, the fever back. I go back to bed after a draft of water.

Wake to the buzzing of my mobile. Clock says 8:05. It’s the college. Confirming my illness. I get up to find aspirin. Pretty sure my stomach can handle it. Cautiously I make a single slice of rye toast and heat water for ginger tea. I get the toast down with sips of the hot tea. Then the aspirin. Then back to bed, hoping the two aspirin tablets take hold quickly. People are wary of aspirin, preferring Advil or Ibuprofen or some other substitute. On the other hand, in a sense aspirin’s been in use for thousands of year, primarily in the form of willow. I go with aspirin on the rare occasions I need a painkiller. That’s what I tell myself every time I take aspirin.

A knock on my door. Then in a moment, a louder knock. I roll out of bed, barefoot but still wearing yesterday’s jeans and shirt. My mouth is dry and, no doubt, putrid. Eleven- twenty-seven. Approaching the door, I croak, “Who is it?” Alexis Radley’s voice, “Dr. Kent, we brought you soup.” I’m not really fit for company, but I draw the chain and pull back the bolt, opening the door. Three girls from the Society and Business Culture class: Alexis, Nura, and Rachel. I step back to let them in, Alexis clearly in the lead, saying, “LWC said you’re ill. We thought you could use some noodle soup. It’s chicken. I couldn’t remember if you’re vegetarian or not, I hope chicken is okay.” “It’s alright,” I manage. “Kitchenette is through there. Excuse me.” I head for the bathroom. After flushing, I wash quickly, splashing my face, swiftly brushing teeth, straightening my clothes. Unshaven but it will have to do. I go join my unexpected guests.

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Nura is examining my bookshelf, her eyes alight under her head scarf. Alexis has found my bowls and silverware. Rachel Kucera has the tea kettle on the stove and says, “You are a tea drinker?” “At home,” I answer. She points at the boxes of various teas lined up on the shelf near the stove, “What kind do you want?” I decide to stick with ginger, thinking it better for my stomach, “The box that says Ginger Aid.” No fever right now, the headache lighter, my body still aching but not as severe, maybe I’m recovering or am in the eye of this malady’s storm? “I like your home,” announces Nura al Razi, gesturing. I try to see it through her eyes, the kitchenette adjoining the small living room, books, CD player and speakers, prints and paintings on the interior walls, braided rug, daybed serving as a couch, the one other cushioned chair, floor lamp, low coffee table. Normally I eat at the kitchenette counter. Not much here really for a man my age. More like a grad student’s place. “The books make it colorful,” I say. Then it occurs to me to ask, “How did you all know where I live?” Alexis commands, “Eat your soup while it’s hot.” Rachel says, “Michael Stroup’s apartment is in this building, too.” I didn’t know. While I sit and start spooning soup, Alexis adds, “He has one of the big front apartments on the fifth floor.” Top floor, twice my rent, I think, as I’m on the first floor in back. Only four apartments on the top floor. There are six apartments on my floor, though mine is not as small as my neighbor’s, which is a studio. The soup tastes good, and as I eat, I realize I’m hungry. “Thank you, for the soup.” “Nura’s idea,” says Alexis. Waving dismissively, Nura adds, “It is Alexis who puts it to action.” The English a bit stilted but serviceable. “And Rachel who paid for the soup,” says Alexis Rachel blushes, “It doesn’t matter.” The soup isn’t from St. Drogo. They have a navy bean and a chicken & rice this autumn Friday. I’m guessing the deli on down the street. I guess I knew Alexis and Rachel are friends. Didn’t know that Nura hung with them as well. “Well, thank you, Ms. Kucera, Ms. Radley, and Ms. al Razi.” “Can I just be Rachel outside of class? When you say Ms. Kucera, I sound like my mom.” I stammer, “Just a bit of formality.” “To keep us at a distance,” observes Nura. I nod, “Better that way, really.” The girls glance at each other, Rachel smiling broadly, “Not all professors want to be distant.” Alexis, adds, “Some just want to make things relaxed, friendly.” “Formality doesn’t preclude friendliness,” I say defensively. “Is alright,” says Nura. “Good to be a little distant. We are students; you are the teacher.” Though the soup has helped, I can’t say that I feel refreshed. I yawn hugely.

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Alexis asks, “So what’s the matter with you?” “Aching, fever, headache. The rest you don’t want to know.” “We should let you recuperate,” says Nura. Rachel grins, “Don’t want to catch whatever you’ve got, Dr. Kent.” “Thank you for the soup. It was very nice of you, but you probably should go. I don’t know how contagious I am.” Alexis stands up, “Let’s go then. Hope you feel better soon, Dr. Kent.” They see themselves out, with me calling, “Thanks again” and Nura turning to say, “We may come back sometime when you are feeling better.”

I putter for a bit, shaving and showering. The shower particularly feels soothing. Read for a short time. Drink more of the tea, now lukewarm. Then go back to bed. Up again just before seven, surprised I slept so much longer. The headache is gone. Body still not up to par. No fever now, though I must have had a fever while sleeping, the sheet slightly damp to the feel. I pull it off the bed and gather up the rest of my dirty clothes and the towels. Find quarters for the machines and head down to the laundry room in the basement. Starting the laundry it occurs to me I’ve never seen Michael Stroup down here or in any of the other common areas. Maybe he has his own stacked washer and dryer in his apartment. Then again, I rarely see anyone down here, maybe because I do my laundry on the week days. Coming upstairs, I find Emmanuelle and Samantha standing at the front door, buzzing my apartment. I let them in as Emmanuelle exclaims, “We heard you were ill.” “Don’t get too close. No French kissing.” A tired witticism at best. “Are you feeling any better?” asks Sam. “Getting there, I think,” I stand aside. “Do you want to come in?” Emmanuelle says, “Yes, please. We’d liked to talk about St. Drogo.” I lead the way back to my apartment.

After offering tea, wine, water, or whiskey, with the wine accepted to a Gallic shrug and smile of approval by Emmanuelle. Both women openly curious about my place, much like Nura al Razi was. Once we’re all settled, me across the room from them given my possibly infectious state, Emmanuelle says, “I want to sell St. Drogo to Sam. She is shy on the amount needed. I am thinking she could pay me the remainder over time from the proceeds. But then she might not be able to afford re-paying loans.” Sam speaks up, “Dr. Kent, you didn’t set any terms on the money you lent me.” We did it on a handshake, no paperwork. She’s right, I have no great expectations of when and how she’d pay me back. I start to answer, but Emmanuelle, in hard-headed business mode, says, “We get it all down on paper. Then there is no question and no bad feelings arise.” I ask, “Well, what works for you, Sam? Your sister is loaning you money, too, right?” “We already talked to my sister. I pay her back over ten years, starting a year after St. Drogo is mine, at 2.5% interest per annum.” I wasn’t thinking about interest. I guess I wasn’t really considering this a loan like a finance company, more like helping out a friend. What are the chances Sam fails as an owner? St. Drogo is well-established so the risks seem minimal, barring some misfortune. Unless Sam

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell plans to tinker with the café, much like the Raineys, then I guess it could be a new ballgame. “There’s no hurry re-paying me.” Shaking her head, Emmanuelle says, “We draw up terms. Make this business-like.” “You two guide me on this. I have no idea what’s reasonable.” It occurs to me that I am tying myself to Sam to a small degree. Not really something that I had thought about. Cautiously, Sam suggests, “How about if I pay you back on the same terms as my sister?” Emmanuelle purses her lips, maybe mentally calculating what Sam can afford if she owns St. Drogo. She looks at Sam, “Can we lay our cards on the table? Sam nods. Emmanuelle says, “St. Drogo grosses $557,500. That was last year. Running a little higher this year. Take out business is 58%. Cash flow is about $128,000. I’m asking $360,000 from Sam. She has $275,000, including your $10,000. So she carries me at $85,000; her sister at $100,000; and you at $10,000.” Sam interjects, “Emmanuelle is asking $400,000 from the Raineys.” Shrugging, Emmanuelle says “They do not love St. Drogo. They plan big changes. Besides, they are well off.” “And Sam knows the business backwards and forwards,” I say. “She has a good head on her shoulders, except when it comes to Niven. “Niven?” Sam makes a face, “My boyfriend. Emmanuelle doesn’t approve of him.” “A distraction if you want St. Drogo. If not, then Niven is your affair,” says Emmanuelle dismissively. “So Sam has a $195,000 to pay back,” I say, not wanting to dwell on Niven. “Plus interest,” says Sam. Emmanuelle says, “Carrying 2.5% one year on $195,000 makes it $199,875. Then payout for ten years, at 2.5%, gives her a monthly payment to make of $1,884.22.” “Total over time is about $226,000,” says Sam. I confess, I had no idea St. Drogo was this kind of money. “So you’ve worked it all out.” “If you agree,” says Emmanuelle. I chuckle, “It’s fine.” Thinking, Sam is what, 22? Ten years out, she’s 32. Likely marrying and having kids somewhere in that time frame. Who knows what the future brings? They have papers drawn up for my part of the loan to Sam. The numbers are quickly filled in from a note Emmanuelle consults, then we all sign, Emmanuelle being the witness to our agreement. As I usher them out, I hear a buzzing of a mobile phone, not my familiar pinging from my phone. Then I realize it must be the Mango phone, a text.

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Chapter 6: A Doubting Agnostic

Through the window of St. Drogo I can see Michael Stroup talking earnestly to Rachel Kucera, gripping her upper arm. It’s the intensity of that talk that caught my interest. Michael is often intense, passionate in his views. Always certain he is right. I look away, back to my current sketch, thinking how rarely I’m certain I’m right. Oh, not about the basics of my tradecraft, teaching and organization design, though there’s less certainty of my efficacy than I convey to my students or clients. But in general, what Madzie used to call my views on life. There’s a squawk outside loud enough to penetrate into St. Drogo. Looking up, I see Rachel pulling away from Michael. He is yelling something and pushes her. She stumbles back, and goes down. Already Nura al Razi is up from where she’d been sitting and is out the door, rushing to help Rachel. I can’t hear what she’s saying to Michael but I can tell he is both defensive and contrite. Nura stands between him and Rachel, not more than five feet tall to his six-three. Rachel is up now, too. Both girls retreat into St. Drogo. Other students and customers have gathered at the windows watching. Michael gestures in frustration, stalks away. As Nura leads Rachel to her table, the gawkers disperse back to their own pursuits, the buzz of talk dying down. I’m watching the two. Uncomfortable at seeing the tears on Rachel’s cheeks, so normally a cheerful girl. Here I’d thought it was Alexis Radley who was Michael’s girlfriend. Nura looks across at me, grimaces. I nod, trying to convey appreciation for her action. She looks away.

It’s been a week since I was ill. Everything back to routine. The only thing unusual is I now have four more new correspondents. Another woman in China, also from India unusually a fellow, a third contact, female, from Greece, and the last a lady from the Emirates, although she is definitely not Mango as it was Ms. al Razi who asked if I would correspond with her friend by way of Facebook. The friend being Radwa al Malik. The others may all be Mango contacts, though I can’t be sure as each was introduced by one of my existing acquaintances. The Greek woman, Danai Bellou, lives in New York currently, working at the U.N. as a translator, and was introduced by a former colleague in Germany. The Indian guy works for a systems consulting firm, Infosys. He is Vinod Sharma, introduced by my friend Jyoti. Likewise, the Chinese woman is in systems, working for Yonyou Software in Beijing, having responsibilities with their HR and business intelligence products. She is Miao Tianxin or Tina in English. So far the only texts I’ve received on the Mango phone have gone to Juanita and Penelope. I assume the text messages for Penelope are a blind. The light-pencil sketch is done. Tomorrow, Friday, I’ll use the colored pencils on it. The cup of mocha is empty, too. Maybe time to go home, though an empty apartment is not appealing.

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Makes me think of the place Madzie and I once shared. That was a warm welcoming space, at least in the first two years before her inner conflicts surfaced. I guess you can pretend only so long. She’s happy with Stefania at least. Though why a furious poet filled with venom against males, really against the whole world, is fulfilling for Madzie, I don’t know. I find Stefania tiresome, trite, and predictable as she defines herself in resistance and anger. I read somewhere that angry people over-estimate their intelligence. That seems to be true in Stefania’s case. Yet Madzie wants me to give her away to the wrathful Ms. Stevie Litwin. On my mind because it’s the second Thursday of the month.

Walking home, I see a chipmunk ahead gnawing on something. Suddenly alert to my oncoming presence, tail up, it darts away to the nearest bushes fronting a two-flat house rented out to students. I like seeing chipmunks, a less common sight than squirrels. The large oak near my apartment building is visited each spring by raccoons who raise a family up in its towering length of limbs. Opossums, skunks, rabbits, mice are common enough in this forested suburb, deer in the greater stretches of woods, as well as the predator foxes and coyotes. Hawks, too, I suppose. When taking the bike path along the rail line one day this past late spring, I counted ten chipmunks in one six mile outing. Pleased me to see them. Nature thriving despite our asphalt, like dandelions and other weeds thrusting up between cracks. Were all we humans to disappear, within a few thousands of years only remnants would remain of our presence, and after several million years, the merest traces. I find that comforting given all the turmoil of our rhetoric and violence. Perhaps I’m in a dark mood tonight.

After washing up the supper dishes, I see I’ve got ten minutes until the call with Madzie. An awkward length of time, too long to simply wait and too short to do much productive. I make tea. Read. Place the call. Pleasantries first, next catching up on our daily activities, then the real question on her mind, “You signed the papers, Auberon?” “Yes, yes,” a little testy. “Sent them back on Monday.” “You had them for the better part of a month,” she points out. “Well, I don’t like it, you know.” “I know, dear,” she says patiently. Feeling some exasperation, I blurt, “It’s not just the divorce, it’s you marrying Stefania.” “You don’t care for Stevie, I understand.” Nor does Stefania like me, I think. Dislike is too weak, probably despises me. “She’s darkness.” Mildly, Madzie says, “I see her as a flame.” “Flames consume, leaving ash.” She sighs, “Let’s not go down this path, Auberon.” More brightly, she adds, “We’ve begun attending a spiritual gathering on Friday evenings.”

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“Oh, something new?” “Yes, the last couple weeks. Not sure about it yet, sort of an Eastern-influenced Christianity, back to the humbler origins, instead of the rituals and dogmas of Catholicism and Orthodoxy.” Her voice has become more enthusiastic. Personally I’m a doubting agnostic, but Madzie’s Catholicism, her belief, has been strong. To partake in some other form of Christianity is a big change for her. She goes on, “There are five circles of enlightenment — of understanding the layers of meaning within the Bible, of prayer and its efficacy, and of knowledge of the Godhead and its true nature. Minerva, who is the founder and priest, has yet to ascend to circle four. There are only two others at circle three, and a dozen at circle two. Most of us are just entering circle one, the first stage of gnosis.” Gobbledygook as far as I can tell. “I see.” Perhaps hearing my skepticism, Madzie says, “Stevie found the group. I think it’s good she is seeking … wisdom, I suppose. It calms her, tempering some of her anxieties.” Madzie chuckles, “You remember when we were doing the qigong sessions? How doubtful you were at first? Well, there is movement and breathing practice as part of this, too. Breathing, meditating, listening for the inner voice, clarifying what is transient and what is true. You know?” “Okay,” I say. Knowing me, she hears the barrier I’m erecting to this new enthusiasm of theirs. “Alright,” she says. “It’s not for you. I think, though, it helps Stevie.” “That’s good,” maybe it will inject some balance into Stefania, though I can’t help wondering how much Madzie has already contributed financially to the support of Minerva and her group, just as Madzie supports Stefania. “Yes, it is. Enough for tonight, Auberon. Talk to you in November.” “Good night, Madzie. Take care.”

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Chapter 7: Email from Rudiger

Friday and another meeting with the Dean and the department. A tug of war between Ed Placek and Eric Munsen over the structuring of a combined organization. Ed is kind of a passive-aggressive guy, while Eric is overtly ambitious and self-aggrandizing. I’m still hoping that whatever happens, a combined department or continuing separately, my courses continue intact. Though I’m guessing if Eric Munsen comes out on top, I’ll need to pitch one or two new courses acknowledging the International Studies dimension. Harper wasn’t at the meeting, her husband taking her to the city’s international film festival is my guess, though she must have offered some other excuse. Paul Petropoulos asking the most questions this session. Maybe because he missed the original meeting in September. Afterwards, I stop by my mail cubby to see if I have any student requests and whether the book I ordered has come in, The Roman Empire and the Indian Ocean. I get on topics in my reading, my night book is usually a novel, meal times a history or social science, and other times something related to my courses, which also includes several academic journals. Anyway, lately I’ve been delving into the economic underpinnings of ancient societies. Something Ryan Corwin at St. Drogo got me going on. Surprisingly, we’ve found common ground between his Classics study and my BOE department. No book for me, though one in Harper’s cubby, with its title printed on the cardboard box, 100 Great War Movies, which reminds me that her husband’s birthday is coming up in a month, one I share with him. A handwritten envelope in my cubby. I’m expecting it’s a student’s note, only to find upon opening it that it’s an invitation from an Adjunct Lecturer in the English Department, not someone I know though I’ve seen him about. The gist of it is to discuss the college’s use of adjunct labor. No doubt fulminations about slave labor, with maybe plans to confront the administration. I have some sympathy but no expectation that the venting of views would lead to any change. Meeting on the 17th, next Wednesday. At the Arts Center, room 207. Maybe an Adjunct in the Fine Arts department is involved? An off-campus meeting suggests a real revolt is brewing. Probably half the lower level classes are taught by Adjuncts or, in some cases, by graduate student TAs. For the upper level classes, it’s probably no more than 20%. We are cheap labor compared to tenure-track people. Supply and demand, there are many well-credentialed academics chasing too few positions, with universities and colleges seeking to keep expenses down and endowments up. I suppose I could go to the meeting. For now, though, I’m going to St. Drogo.

“You coming for the music tomorrow night?” asks Emmanuelle, as I order my mocha. “Remind me, who’s playing?” “Bamford & Titus, folksy acoustics,” she answer, “new to here. Try them, you might like them.” I nod, no other plans anyway, “Okay.” “Bring a date,” she laughs. “You could be my date.” Not really nettled at her assumption of no date for me.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

“Careful, I might take you up on that, though Gregor probably wouldn’t like it.” The maybe mythical husband, Gregor, whom none of us has ever seen to the best of my knowledge, not even Sam. I’m not even sure if Gregor, presuming there really is a Gregor, lives in the U.S. Countering I say, “Nor would Madzie, possibly.” She glances at my wedding ring, maybe Madzie is as mythical to her as Gregor is to me. For one thing, Emmanuelle doesn’t wear a ring. Maybe Gregor is a gentleman friend or a brother or a big dog. Sam has my mocha at the end of the counter, having heard our conversation, she says, “If Emmanuelle is playing hard to get, I could be your date. I’ll be here anyway,” she laughs. “Niven?” I ask. She gives wave of her hand, dismissing the thought of Niven, “Not the jealous type when it comes to me.” I ask, “Where’s Ryan and Zach? They usually have Friday afternoon.” Emmanuelle makes a face, ”Zach is no more. Ryan has maybe what you had a week ago.” “Hope it’s not too severe for Ryan,” my bout was blessedly brief, really just a 24-hour bug. “Yes, and that we don’t catch it,” agrees Emmanuelle.

An email from Rudiger, which is rare although not as rare as phone calls. It’s been seven months, no, eight months, since the last contact, when he wanted me to invest in his REIT which I declined. He thinks I blame him for selling the farm, which I really don’t, and that I envy his wealth, which is maybe partially true. Or envy his devoted wife, Joanna, and his two kids, Chloe who’s ten and Skyler who’s seven, girl and boy. Also, maybe occasionally true. I do remember the kids’ birthdays and Christmas, though whether they appreciate the books I send I don’t know. The email states that the folks who own the farm were clearing a loft storage room in the tractor shed when they came across a wooden box of photographs, journals, and other family stuff. Good lord, it’s been twelve years since the farm was sold. He’s told the folks — the Aagaards — to ship the box to me, as it’s cheaper than shipping it to him out in Colorado. If there’s anything in the box I think he should have or keepsakes for his kids, to send them at my convenience. I don’t know whether this email represents just what it says or is a sort of peace sign between us. I’ll take it at face value, I decide. After handling a few other emails and texts, I settle in to reading one of the online journals I subscribe to. You have to keep up with trends, innovations, and success examples in the field. Not my favorite reading. A buzz from the Mango phone. Always makes me jump. Texts to be sent to Vinod and Jyoti. A second buzz, a text to be sent to Tina Miao. I comply, wondering as I do so over this awkward communication route. Safe, I guess. Filtering messages through me. It’s not difficult duty, and the messages seem well-crafted, taking into account not only what the government wants to convey but the sensibilities of my real friends and acquaintances. I guess for this conduit route to work the messages need to seem authentic.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Sam stops by my table after sweeping the floor where a mother had brought three young children earlier. Muffin crumbs everywhere. “Preparing for classes?” she asks. “Keeping up to date in my specialties.” In a softer voice she says, “Zach was pilfering the till.” “Oh. Tough. Reported him to the police?” “No. Emmanuelle docked his pay and fired him.” “Could he sue?” “I don’t think so. Ryan caught him red-handed.” “Foolish of the guy.” She nods, “Yeah, guys like that think they can get away with anything.” Sam hesitates, then adds, “Actually, Niven and I broke up.” I think this maybe is the third or fourth time they’ve broken up, whenever someone else catches his eye. “For good?” “Yeah.” “His loss, Sam. You’re a keeper.” I smile, trying to be encouraging. She shrugs, smiles back, “I am, aren’t I.” She walks away. Her good cheer makes her attractive, rather than looks, which are okay but remarkable solely for her rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes. I hope life doesn’t wear away her buoyancy. Like Emmanuelle, I never much cared for Niven.

After St. Drogo closes, I head home, stopping at the deli to pick up milk. In my apartment building vestibule, I’m juggling the milk container and my back pack, which is slipping off my shoulder, as I fish for the keys to the front door when Rachel comes clattering down the interior stairs, crying. She pushes open the door, rushing past me, barely noticing me, I think, clearly distraught. I call after her, “Rachel, are you okay?” Which sounds stupid to me after I say it since obviously she isn’t. Setting the milk and back pack down, I go out after her, but she’s already reached the corner. A car screeches to a stop by her, door opening, and I see Nura jump out to embrace Rachel. Alexis is the driver. I turn back, she’s in better hands with her friends.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Chapter 8: Snatches of Conversation

Grocery shopping is done. I biked over. Filling the saddle bags on the bike, plus an extra cloth bag hanging off the handlebars. Enough for the week since I got milk yesterday. In winter, I walk it with a pull cart. Then I tend to load up more so I don’t have to go as often. What lasts a week plus some days more for me, probably wouldn’t last a family more than a half a week, except for staples like a five-pound bag of flour. Anyway, it feels satisfying to have my larder filled up. I prefer shopping during the week because there’s more bargains, but this week got away from me. Maybe because it’s turned cooler, so more time spent in the warmth of St. Drogo. I’m debating going out again, maybe to the Arts Center for the new exhibit or I could go see a movie as it’s cheaper before five. Probably go hear music at St. Drogo tonight so don’t really need a mocha this afternoon. Maybe go see The Old Man & the Gun, although The Wife interest me, too. Bad Times at the El Royale looks like a future DVD selection. Then my phone rings, my Mango phone. Cautiously, I answer, expecting a wrong number, “Hello?” “Dr. Kent,” a woman’s voice. “Yes?” “This is Joyce.” “Yes.” “Do you have paper and pen?” “Hold on a second,” I scramble for a pad, pull my pen from my shirt pocket. “Go ahead.” “Please initiate a wechat invite. Number is 287 89 8314 at qq.com. Name of Sheng Jun.” She spells the name and repeats the number. Has me repeat the number back. “Today, please, between 20:00 and 22:00. State you are a friend of Jiang Lienhua.” Between 9 and 11 Sunday morning in China. Lienhua is a friend, one of my favorites in China. A rural girl come to the big city of Shenzhen to make her way. Married early, two kids. Husband works construction; she’s a receptionist for an import/export firm, mostly based on her good looks and just enough English. We met on the Shenzhen metro. “Okay,” I say. Joyce clicks off, leaving me to wonder. I wouldn’t want to get Lienhua in trouble.

The day goes along, the movie enjoyable. A quick supper at home. Then walk to St. Drogo. Have my mocha and listen to the music. Okay, but not quite my taste. Emmanuelle and Sam working the counter, and breaking in a new barista, presumably Zach’s replacement, an East Asian girl. From her looks, I’d guess Korean rather than Chinese or Japanese. The place is busy, filled up. The ambient noise level high away from the stage, people talking, coming and going. Closer on, customers are more respectful of the duo playing. As I listen, I’m reading The House Without a Key, the first of the Charlie Chan novels from 1925. Not that I’m all that retro in my reading, but my eye was caught at the library by a large volume of annotated classic crime fiction of the 1920’s. Five novels in the tome, with very useful annotation. I’m enjoying the first novel, the writing much better than I expected. This

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell may be the first novel in America that depicted a Chinaman favorably in more than a bit character walk-on. I do take time to send an invite to Sheng Jun. Shortly, it is accepted. We exchange a few messages. She is an administrative assistant with a good command of English. Knows Jiang Lienhua as a neighbor. Apparently she works for Customs, a government agency, that being the other common thread with Lienhua at the import/export firm. We bid goodbye for now. Applaud as the duo completes their first set. The buzz of conversation heightens. I go back to my book. “You always bring a book to a concert, Dr. Kent?” It’s Amy G, from Eric Munsen’s office at the college. “Hi, Amy. Don’t see you here very often.” “Kicking up my heels tonight,” she grins. Really a nice smile. Why did I think she was mousy? A bow mouth with lips well- defined. “Would you like to sit or are you with others?” Maybe it’s that she has her glasses off. Contact lenses? I smile, “And, yes, I usually have a book or two with me.” At the college she is habitually in slacks, high-necked blouse, and sweater, even in summer given the air conditioning in Miriam Hall. Or maybe it’s the thick stone walls of that building, the oldest on campus, though remodeled more recently than most. Tonight she wears a dress, low cut and well-above the knees, with high boots. And light make-up. She answers, “I’m with Todd Blinderstaff and some others. I just wanted to say hi, Dr. Kent.” “Auberon,” I say. “We’re off campus.” She laughs, “Auberon then.” “Well, it’s nice to see you away from the college and having fun.” She gestures at the book, “You having your own escape from academia.” She gives a little wave, and heads towards the Ladies Room. Hmmm, how old is she? Older than Todd by several years, maybe five or six; younger than me by about the same amount. Amy Grey, I muse, odd seeing her in a different guise. I complete the chapter where the murdered man is discovered. Then the duo is on stage again, and I settle back to listen, except the Mango phone buzzes. I pull it from my jacket pocket. A text for Sheng Jun. What is the urgency with this contact, I wonder? Using my own phone, I send off the text. After the second set, and exchanging goodnights with Emmanuelle and Sam, as well as being introduced to the barista-in-training, Emma Kim, who is of Korean descent as I suspected, I head out into the night. Others exiting, too. I catch sight of Amy and Todd with another couple walking toward the campus or, maybe, the lakeside. I heft my book and go in the opposite direction. On ahead are a foursome of students from my classes: Ashley Bowers, Megan Nowak, Fu Chuqin, and Victoria Huang. I’m a few paces back and only hear snatches of conversation as opening statements or exclamations. So often sentences start high but soften and become quieter. I gather they’re talking about Rachel Kucera. I hear the words like assault and Title IX, and other names like Alexis and Michael Stroup. Is it only rumor and gossip, or did something really happen last evening to Rachel? Whatever happened, the voluble Alexis must be the source of the news. I can’t imagine it’s Rachel herself, or Nura al Razi for that matter.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Chapter 9: Head Scarf

By Monday the rumor has spread through the college. There are only 1,500 undergrad students so news travels quickly. Hearing that Michael Stroup is shunned by most girls and some boys, enough to disrupt classes he attempted to attend, isn’t a surprise. Neither Michael nor Rachel are in attendance at my Society and Business Culture class. Leading the class as usual is difficult due to the many sidebar conversations among the students. I persist and for a time we seem to be back on track. Unfortunately for its timing, today’s topic is about the effects of societal gender mores within the business world. Alexis Radley is subdued today. Ms. al Razi silent. Jim McAdoo, Victoria Huang, and Fu Chuqin carrying the discussion for the most part. At lunch in the cafeteria, I have half a pesto sandwich and a cup of the butternut squash soup. Only one student from Entrepreneurship stops to talk, asking advice on his project. Fortunately, not requiring a lengthy exposition. As I finish up, Nura al Razi is standing before me, “Dr. Kent, can we talk about something that’s not about classwork?” Gesturing at the chair, I answers, “Sure, I have time before my Dynamics class.” She sits. Says nothing for a moment. Maybe formulating the English in her mind. “Rachel and Alexis have stopped talking to each other.” “Ms. Kucera is dong alright?” “Not really.” Of course not, I think. A dunce for asking that question. “They are best friends.” She nods, pensively. “Rachel is angry, embarrassed maybe. Alexis talked too much about Friday.” “Was Ms. Kucera assaulted?” Nura nods. “Mr. Stroup?” She nods again. After a moment, Nura says, “Rachel doesn’t want her family to know. Doesn’t want to … “ Hesitates, “Didn’t want anyone to know. But Alexis must have said things.” “You’re sure? It wasn’t Michael Stroup talking, maybe bragging?” She hadn’t thought of that, “Would he?” “Maybe to a friend or two.” “Rachel won’t speak up. Some of the girls think there will be an investigation. If there is, should I speak up?” “You can tell what you know for certain. Did Ms. Kucera get examined by a nurse or doctor afterwards?” Not likely, I think, remembering Friday’s incident. “No, I don’t think so. Would you tell what you know, Dr. Kent? You saw her, right?” “If I’m asked, certainly.” “There should be consequences for what he did,” she states firmly. “There should be, but if Ms. Kucera won’t accuse him, then I doubt there will be officially. On the other hand, already Mr. Stroup is being ostracized by his classmates.” “It may not last. There are some defending Michael. He’s popular, you know.” Then in mild distaste, she adds, “One girl even said she wouldn’t mind if Michael raped her.” “Is Ms. Kucera talking with you?”

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

“Yes, a little this morning” “Would she accept counseling? There are Title IX advisors. Talk this experience out with someone. If not a professional counselor, then one of the female professors, say Professor Haliwell or Davies. Maybe Dean Selfridge.” I sigh, truthfully more concerned for the impact all this has on Rachel than on Michael Stroup. “There were bruises. Her dress torn,” now there is a quiet fury in Nura’s voice. “Michael was laughing.” “She told you?” “Yes. In the bathroom after, she called Alexis. When she came out, he was in the kitchen dinking, asking if she wanted a drink. As if nothing happened. She ran. No shoes.” I recall that detail now, no shoes. “She told us in the car, crying.” This is traumatic for Nura, too, I suddenly realize. Probably for Alexis. It affects all three of the friends. “Ms. al Razi, I think I must report what I know. It may lead to questions for you and Ms. Radley, even if Ms. Kucera makes no accusation.” She nods, “Alright.”

The procedures were already in motion I learned when I went to the Administration. Michael Stroup suspended pending the outcome. My deposition was taken. Apparently neither Rachel nor Michael are cooperating, neither is Alexis Radley. So Nura al Razi’s testimony and mine are the primary evidence. Plus a statement from Anthony Mazur, one of Michael’s circle of friends, that Michael had talked of it, though cryptically. Michael’s closest buddies, Geoffrey Burke and Joshua Franzen, wouldn’t corroborate Mr. Mazur’s assertion. Nonetheless, there were enough witnesses of Thursday’s incident outside St. Drogo to lend weight to the situation. The college’s Title IX process allows Rachel to go forward with an accusation so long as she’s a student here. No doubt, if she doesn’t within the week, Michael’s suspension will be lifted. As the next several days go by, the unofficial student consensus condemns Michael and, surprisingly, Rachel. As I heard Megan Nowak say to a friend, “Why did she go to his apartment on Friday, after he struck her on Thursday? What did she expect?” Rachel is in class on Friday. Not participating but in attendance at least. She won’t make eye contact with me. Sits apart from both Alexis and Nura, in the back of the room, having been one of the last to enter. I carry forward in the class as I would normally. With Michael absent and Alexis quiet, several other students shine in the discussion. Not until late in the class does Alexis begin to voice her ideas on the topic. In truth, apart from the principals involved in the incident, the students are less affected than I would expect given Monday’s hubbub. For the most part, they’ve already moved on. Maybe the college as a whole has moved on as well for the current faculty and administration issue is over the adjunct ‘rebellion’. Though I missed the Wednesday adjunct meeting at the Arts Center, enough part-timers attended to strengthen their resolves. They produced a statement delivered to the college president and Provost Abramson addressing numerous complaints such as pay, benefits, office space, lack of formal representation in the

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell faculty senate, and the like, with the threatening possibility of taking these concerns to the college board, to alumni, the community, or even the Department of Labor. My expectation is the leaders of the ‘rebellion’ won’t have their contracts renewed, while some small symbolic gains will be made for adjuncts, but that nothing substantial will change.

All is normal at St. Drogo, at least. My haven in the face of storms, I think wryly. On one hand, my routines can edge toward boredom, on the other they give comfort. No — more than comfort, pleasure and maybe meaning. Saying hello to Ryan, and now Emma Kim, too. Having them know to make a mocha, even as I come through the front door. Greeting a few other regulars, like Mrs. Seaver the elderly newspaper reader, though it’s only a mutual nod of recognition. Setting up the laptop and if drawing, the sketch pad and pencils, or, if reading, pulling a book out of the backpack. Settling in and corresponding, drawing, or reading, with ear buds in to listen to music. Granted, none of it is the true intimacy that I once had with Madzie, yet it is being known and knowing others. Right? Sufficient? Certainly, I tell myself.

I see Ms. al Razi come in, place her order, find a table, and begin writing, probably the paper for the class she has with Harper Haliwell. Other students are here, some from my classes, like Mr. Staszak and Mr. Acevedo. It feels warm, safe. A kind of fellowship. The Mango phone buzzes. Yet another text for Sheng Jun. I swear she gets twice as many as any of the other contacts. It worries me that I also send these messages to Jiang Lienhua. Is it time to message ‘parrot, parrot’ and bow out of this game? After complying with the texts, I go back to reading. This is for pleasure of a sorts. A used book I picked up for a dollar since it was heavily underlined. No Sure Victory, which is subtitled ‘Measuring the U.S. Army effectiveness and progress in the Vietnam War’. A somewhat tedious read on a forlorn topic, yet enlightening of the causes of our country’s failure there. Makes me wonder if any of the lessons learned then have been applied to our series of Middle Eastern wars, especially in Afghanistan but Iraq as well. Does what I do with the Mango contacts have any influence on such events? Ryan Corwin clears his throat next to me, “May I join you?” Unusual. “Sure, Ryan. What’s up?” He takes a seat, leans forward, “You know Sam is buying out Emmanuelle, right?” “Yes, of course.” He nods, “I’m in a bit of a quandary.” “Oh?” “I’m not sure I want to work for Sam.” “Why is that? I thought you two got along well.” “We do, as colleagues, you know,” a grimace on his face. “You know she’s younger than me, right?” A surprise, I would have thought Ryan was above such a concern. “Sure, does that matter?”

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

“Maybe.” “She’s been here the longest. Trained you, if I remember right. Has been Emmanuelle’s number two,” I point out. “True,” a gesture, maybe dismissing all that. He hesitates, then says, “You know she broke up with Niven, right?” Ah, I think, are we getting to his real concern? “Yes, for real this time.” “Last time they were apart, Sam and I went out together a couple times. Nothing serious, just sort of pals, you know?” I ask, “A little serious for you?” “Well, not really. I mean, I had the feeling she still carried a torch for him.” “Not now, though,” I say. He nods, “Yeah, I can tell. She’s done with him.” “So you don’t want to work for her because she interests you?” He looks away, looks back at me, shrugs, “She’s funny, you know. Kind of grows on you. I mean, I can’t imagine not working with her.” “Does Sam know how you feel?” He reddens, “I don’t know. I haven’t said anything.” “Words aren’t the only way we communicate.” He nods, goes on, “I don’t think she’s ready for anyone else. St. Drogo is a big thing to her.” “Her opportunity in the world.” Earnestly he says, “You know she’s put all her money into it? What she inherited from the sale of her mom’s house?” My turn to nod. He says, “She’s smart, you know. Not educated. She’s got high school, but I don’t think she was a stellar student.” “Schooling isn’t for everyone. There are other paths.” He nods again, says, “She thinks I’m an intellectual.” He laughs wryly, “As if.” Then he sighs, “Except I think it intimidates her.” I understand his fear. “You know she is curious about many topics. There’s much she wants to know, just not in a school setting.” “Yes.” “Ryan, give it a chance. That’s my advice. Working for her and, maybe, letting yourself grow on her.” “You think so?” “Can’t hurt.” He nods, “Thanks.” Gets up. “Time for closing.” I hadn’t realized it was already after seven. Everyone else has left. Dark out already. As I pack up, I laugh to myself at giving out love-life advice. Not one of my strengths. “Dr. Kent,” calls Ryan. “Yes?” “You go west, right? Could you walk Emma home? I’m suppose to meet some friends.” Emma Kim stands there beside Ryan. I don’t actually know much about her, she being so new here. “Sure, where do you live Emma?”

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

“On Tolliver, at Pontiac.” A block from Gulliver, my street. “Are you ready now?” She looks to Ryan, who says, “Go ahead. I’ll finish up.” We chat a bit as we go, she maybe a little embarrassed as she says, “My mom is scared for me in America. Doesn’t want me out alone after dark. Foolish, I know.” “Yet you do as your mother wants.” A gesture, “Yes.” “Your mom is here or in Korea?” “Indianapolis. We have a dry cleaning store.” I’m not sure when I last went to a dry cleaners. Maybe a coat two years ago. “A tough business anymore.” “Why do you say?” “Used to be everyone dressed more formally. Suits. Needed dry cleaning more often.” “Yes, before our time.” We turn on Tecumseh, probably should have walked on to Pontiac, except this is how I usually go. Tolliver being two blocks down, rather than the one to Gulliver. As we’re walking by the two-flat where I’d seen the chipmunk some days ago Emma ask, “What is that?” I might have missed it, but Emma is on my left, closer. In the dim light, it looks to be a bundle of clothes on the walkway to the two-flat. Only Emma realizes it isn’t faster than I do. She says, “It’s a person.” Her sense of foreboding stronger than mine, “Call 911, Dr. Kent,” as she hurries to the body. She is kneeling as I fumble for my phone. Calls to me, “She’s breathing. Battered.” It’s then that I recognize the head scarf. It’s Nura al Razi.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Chapter 10: Hate Crime?

Pacing in the hospital waiting room. The paramedics took her to St. Raphael’s, which is closer than Lake Shore General. I called the college so Nura’s emergency contact could be notified. Talked with the police. Got Emma Kim to her home, she very agitated and I wasn’t much better. Then to the hospital by foot, just within my normal walking distance. Jogging much of the way. They won’t let me see her, of course. I’m not a relative, nor an official of LWC, that is not in loco parentis. I do know from a sympathetic nurse that Nura’s still not conscious. I can be here until her family or someone from the college arrives. Is it a random attack? Coincidental with the incidents involving Rachel? Is it because she is Muslim? Part of all the hate rhetoric going on in our country. For some reason, it has me thinking of Jiang Lienhua and the others, like Penelope. Am I endangering them over these Mango contacts and messages? People disappear in China, often for reasons that seem trivial to someone here. The merest suggestion of insult to the Party, the country, or Xi Jinping. Not that China is alone. Insulting the King in Thailand or Erdogan in Turkey or the Saudi crown prince, all dangerous acts. A cross on the wall here in the waiting room. A realistic depiction of the nailed and hanging Jesus. Well, not truly realistic of an actual man. Hardly looking like any Jewish rabbi I’ve met. Presumably he was another martyr for insulting those in authority. My thoughts are astray. I take some deep calming breaths, like years ago with Madzie at qigong, clear away the agitation. It’s difficult not to be furious at the harm done to Ms. al Razi. Not to be worried for her well-being. I sit rather than pace, concentrate on being still, on breathing evenly. It is out of my hands for the moment. Time to wait. Others might pray, I can only hope. At eight-thirty Saturday morning, I take a brief call from the Dean of Student Affairs, Tom Brightly. Then by nine, one of the counselors from the college arrives, Brianna Weatherford. She is now talking to a doctor about Ms. al Razi’s condition. The long night had me resigned to awaiting the outcome. Now, though, with Ms. Weatherford here, my impatience is hard to contain. The counselor rejoins me, saying “Not life threatening. A broken arm, several cracked ribs, nose broken. Mostly they’re worried about concussion. She remains unconscious.” When does unconscious become a coma, I wonder? “I guess that’s a positive report.” “A hate crime,” says Ms. Weatherford. Jumping to a conclusion? Influenced by being African-American? “Maybe, if she wasn’t targeted personally.” “You think so? Why?” “I don’t know, but I think there’s a range of possibilities yet.” “You talked with the police.” “Yes, last night. Emma Kim and I both.” “Emma Kim? A student?”

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

“No, a barista at St. Drogo. I was walking her home. It was she who spotted Ms. al Razi.” Ms. Weatherford nods, “The school met with the local police previously, as well as alerting the campus force. We have many foreign students as you know, so we’ve been concerned about the possibility of hate crimes.” “Is this the first possible instance?” She purses her lips, deciding what she can divulge. “There have been a few incidents that seem more than town versus gown.” She doesn’t elaborate, adding only, “None as serious as this.” We chat about the LWC, she mostly asking about my classes. There’s little she can say about her counseling. I do bring up that Nura and I gave depositions with regard to Rachel Kucera and Michael Stroup. Ms. Weatherford is already aware of that. The detectives arrive at quarter to ten. Last night it had been uniformed officers. They interview me, Detective Norbury taking the lead. Apparently they’d already met with Emma Kim this morning. I recount what little I know, then they go off to talk to the doctor. A stir in the waiting room as two men enter, dressed in suits. Ms. Weatherford rises to greet them, asking, “Mr. al Razi?” Seeing the tall thin man with a neatly trimmed beard, I recognize him. I realize I have met him years ago on that consulting assignment in the Emirates. Mus’ad al Razi, then he didn’t have gray in his beard. His companion is new to me, but I’m guessing also from the embassy. Or possibly the consulate in the city. After speaking with Ms. Weatherford, Mr. al Razi turns to me, “Dr. Kent” he extends a hand. “A long time since you were in the Emirates.” “Yes. I’m sorry we meet again under such circumstances.” “You found my daughter.” His face serious. “A companion and I did.” He breathes out, “Fortunate that you did and got help for her. Now excuse me, I must speak with the doctor.” The other man, introduced briefly, though I didn’t quite catch his name, perhaps Mr. Siddiqui, stays with Ms. Weatherford. Time to go home, catch up on sleep now that Nura’s father is here, and the school represented. I excuse myself, asking that they call me when Ms. al Razi’s condition changes.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Chapter 11: In Loco Parentis

It’s late before I get to St. Drogo. Being Saturday, their hours are long today. I’d slept for six hours but my body wouldn’t do more despite still being tired. Likely I’ll miss that extra hour I usually get. Dreams were anxious dreams, about missing tests, appointments, and other arrangements. Emmanuelle and Sam knew of last night’s event from Emma, so had questions though truthfully I could add little to what they’d already heard from Emma, other than that detectives were on the case and the girl’s father was now here. Emmanuelle particularly was incensed that a customer would be attacked after leaving the café. They added that the police had searched on Tecumseh Street for the girl’s backpack. Apparently Emma had described it to them, having seen Ms. al Razi wearing it when she left the café a little before seven last night. That detail had escaped me, and in all the worry and activity, the thought of her backpack hadn’t occurred to me. So could robbery be added to the possible motives for Nura’s beating? I think about the timing. Were Emma and I out of here by 7:15? Would Nura have left at 6:50 or 6:55? Or was the timing even tighter? Had I left as I normally do, would Nura have even been attacked? I realize I don’t know where Nura, Alexis, and Rachel are living. That they share an apartment is something I learned this week. The mocha at least is welcome, soothing. My laptop open before me, I rouse myself from dwelling on last night to look at my correspondence. Four student emails requiring responses. Curious, another email from my brother. I deal with the students’ queries first. My brother is flying to the city this coming Wednesday. He suggests we have a meal together. Maybe supper Thursday or breakfast on Friday before he flies back. Staying at the Park Hyatt. Very strange. He’s in and out of the city several times a year I know, without ever seeking contact. Well, we can meet. I reply, agreeing to a Thursday supper. Next it’s texts from my international friends. A half-dozen messages. Isabel in Spain. Always welcome, a lovely photo of her to download. Send a heart, rose, and grin. Tell her she’s lovely. Jeremy Packer, a former colleague from the U.K. regarding a possible U.S. assignment. Give him a thumbs up. Jyoti’s photos of her vacation in Malaysia, scuba diving. I respond. An English question from Alex Ji, the fellow FuHua posted to Ethiopia, a quick reply to him. Napas Benrohman in Thailand asking that I review her revised CV. I download it for later. Then a text from Jiang Lienhua. Something the matter, a downturned face for the emoticon and the text in Chinese characters, bu hao meaning not good. I ask what’s happening, what’s wrong. Could be anything, but I wonder if it’s Mango connected, feeling instant guilt. Rare to see bu hao from Lienhua. Not much to do or say until she responds. I am thinking about going back home now that the mocha is drunk. I’m still tired. Then I see Julia Caspari— Jules — the sometime model and server and yoga instructor. She comes over, “How are you tonight, Auberon?” “Fair,” I say. She cocks her head, “That doesn’t sound promising.”

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

“One of my students was injured last night. So I was at the hospital until morning.” “Oh? Too bad. He’ll be alright?” she asks. I gesture at the seat opposite, saying, “Awaiting word. She was not conscious as of this morning. He father flew in and is with her.” Correcting the gender assumption. “A car accident?” I hesitate, but it may make the local news, “No, she was beaten.” “Beaten? A girl? Assaulted?” Jules seems shocked, probably due to our neighborhood, yet not surprised at the possibility of sexual assault. “Possibly robbed.” Wanting to change the subject, “What about you? Not your neck of the woods.” She gestures at the Arts Center, “Jack Guilfoyle’s drawing session.” “I thought you were modeling on the 4th?” “Someone cancelled, so I substituted for the Saturday session he holds here.” She sighs, “I can always use the money. Jack calls me his old reliable.” “Did you place an order?” I gesture at the counter that Sam is manning. “Yes, supper. The avocado sandwich and soup.” A smile, “And a brownie.” Just then, Sam calls, “Pablo Picasso.” “That’s me,” says Jules, holding up the small laminated photo of Picasso. Emmanuelle doesn’t bother with that for regulars like me, but others get issued an artist’s identity when ordering rather than writing down their names. I think the first time here I was Gustave Caillebotte. Apparently Emmanuelle used saints in the early days of the café but it had too much religious overtone. Famous artists are less controversial and they go with the traffic from the Arts Center across the street and maybe with LWC. It gets a laugh from newcomers, especially certain artists, like Vincent Van Gogh. Jules returns with a tray. I feel a stir of hunger, too. Soup would be enough. Saturday in late October so Emmanuelle will have chili as well as the potato & leek soup that Jules selected. “Are you vegetarian?” I ask. “Not really, just I don’t eat a lot of meat,” she shrugs. “My sister is the opposite. She doesn’t like vegetables. Except carrots.” “Excuse me a moment. I think I’ll get a bowl of their chili.” “Get it with the cornbread, too,” she recommends. While waiting to place my order behind a pair of fellows having a tough time deciding what to drink, my cell phone buzzes. Answering, I hear Mr. al Razi’s voice, “Dr. Kent?” “Yes. How is she, Mr. al Razi?” I step away from the counter. “Conscious now. The doctors expect recovery over the next week, with her broken bones healing through the month of November and, possibly, into December.” “That’s good. You have spoken to her? If so, what has she said of the attacker?” “Attackers, Dr. Kent. Two of them, from behind.” “Can she identify them? Has she spoken to the police?” “She is not certain of the identities, and yes, Detectives Norbury and Zalewski have been here.” A pause, then Mr. al Razi adds, “Young men, from the college she suspects.” “The college, not the town?” A sigh over the phone, then, “She thinks the college but is not certain.” Another pause, “I am guessing she may know more than she is saying.”

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I’m not sure how to answer that. “Do you think she’d speak to her roommates, Rachel and Alexis? Be open with them?” Silence for a time, then Mr. al Razi says, “Perhaps. She may be afraid of what I might do if I knew their identities. I am deeply angered, Dr. Kent.” I cannot fully imagine as a parent what Mr. al Razi must feel — as a parent and as a man from the Emirates. “Yes, I am certain your fury is even greater than mine. It shames me that Ms. al Razi suffered so in this town, at this college.” “I wanted to take her home. Back to Sharjah. She objects, wants to continue in school.” A dry chuckle, “She is stubborn, like her mother. Nura says she will not be cowed by bullies. The right word? Bullies?” “Yes, the right word.” “Ms. Weatherford believes it is possible for Nura to keep up with her schoolwork despite this … setback is the word Ms. Weatherford used.” He continues, “So I would like your opinion, Dr. Kent. Can I rely on Lincoln Willard College to see right by my daughter?” “Yes, certainly.” “I would like to entrust my daughter to your oversight, Dr. Kent.” That surprises me, and I’m uncertain what Mr. al Razi would consider oversight. “Would not one of the woman professors be a better choice? Dean Selfridge or Dr. Haliwell?” “I know you, Dr. Kent. And I know you care enough for the good of my daughter to be at the hospital overnight.” “What would you have me do, Mr. al Razi?” “May we meet tomorrow to discuss it? Say a lunch time meeting?” “Certainly. I’d like to help.” “Noon tomorrow. Where is it my daughter likes to go? St. Drogo on Lake Michigan Avenue?” “That would be fine.” “Until then.” “Alright, good night.”

Shortly after the call and giving Sam my order, I’m back at the table with Jules. It took long enough that Jules is done eating and is sipping her latte. “You were hungry,” I say. She laughs, brushing a crumb of brownie off her lip, “Yes. You try modeling for three hours.” She points at the decorations around the counter, “What happens at the college for Halloween?” We talk about Halloween, how its celebration has changed over the years, based in large part on an article she read and my own memories of trick or treating in the ‘80s. Though that was in small town Wisconsin so may not have been representative of an urban area. Not that we got trick or treaters on the farm. A little too remote. And our nearest neighbors were religious and didn’t believe in celebrating what they called satanic rituals. Curious that there are still people who believe in Satan in this day and age. Though there are many who apparently believe in God so I guess that goes with it. I make such a comment to Jules, and then must make the distinction between Satan and evil. “Humans do evil, it doesn’t need a supernatural agency to inspire it. Just as doing good doesn’t need a God, just common sense and compassion.”

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“I suppose so,” she answers. “Yet we like to believe in something bigger than ourselves, even if it’s scary.” “Making life healthy, fulfilling, and useful for ourselves and others has purpose, and is bigger than any one of us,” is my reply. I think I believe this to be true. Not all the time, like when depressed, but mostly. She looks at me, then says, “You’ve thought about this.” “Sure, maybe in the middle of the night.” I laugh. Jules nods. Then changing the subject, she asks, “Are you staying for the music tonight?” I wasn’t going to. No Flock of Birds tonight. Yet if Jules is staying, perhaps I will. “Do you know who’s playing?”

At seven, Sunday morning, I ease out of bed, trying not to disturb Jules. I’m usually up by six-thirty. For years, it was even earlier, the farm habit. I use the bathroom, then go to the kitchenette. Start the water for tea, teeccino, or, if Jules wants, coffee. Turn to see her dressed now only in my shirt from yesterday. “You’re an early riser,” she accuses, yawning hugely. “Why don’t you turn off the gas and come back to bed with me?” I do as she asks.

“Seven tattoos,” I say, after counting all of hers. Even the one high up on her inner left thigh. A small arrow pointing erotically. “None for you,” she answers, chuckling. “I’ve checked all over.” “You certainly have.” Languor now, both of us spent again. Lying side by side. Happy enough together, liking each other but nothing more. Time now after nine. “Getting hungry? You want to shower first?” I ask.

At noon, I’m at St. Drogo. Mr. al Razi is already there. I wave my greeting, then join him after getting a scone and a mocha. I like St. Drogo’s scones. Properly made, not over large, the mistake many American bakeries and cafés make. I’m not really hungry anyway after a breakfast with Jules, later than my usual time. After preliminary greetings, in an apologetic manner, Mr. al Razi says, “Dr. Kent, my daughter looks up to you. The proper respect between student and teacher. Though I sense there is more on her part, a genuine liking. So I venture to prevail on your good nature to ask your assistance while she continues at Lincoln Willard College.” “I’m happy to help. Your daughter has an inquiring mind.” “Ah, like her mother, Salma.” Mr. al Razi smiles, today seeming more relaxed now that Nura is certain to recover. “What I propose is that you keep an eye out for her. That is the correct phrase, eye out?” “Yes,” I say cautiously, uncertain what this will entail. “Not only in classes or at the college, but more generally. Someone she can rely upon as needed and someone who will know what is happening in her life here.”

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“Mr. al Razi, it has been my policy for many years not to become too close to my students.” “Yes, I understand. On the whole, I would say that policy is sound. Yet, I ask that you extend more interest in the welfare of my daughter, not simply in class as you would do with any student. She is, in effect, your guest-friend in this country.” He pauses, goes on, “When you were consulting on behalf of the Gulf Cooperative Logistics Corporation, it was noted that you were sensitive to the cultural sensibilities of our country, and that you, like the Irish lady, Ms. Macoun, truly had your client’s best interests in mind. Though we dismissed other consultants from your firm, you two completed the assignment ably. I am as certain that you would stand by my daughter.” Reluctantly, I nod, “I suppose I can make an exception, given the circumstances.” “You are concerned that other students mistake you for treating Nura preferentially? I would want you to be as rigorous with her as with any of your students. She is here to learn and grow in her capabilities.” That is not my primary concern. I’m not sure I can put into words what I fear. So I say, “Of course. That must be the case.” He nods, and continues, “I am making arrangements for her sister, Najwa, to join her here. It will be couple weeks before that can be accomplished. Najwa is not a scholar like Nura, but she is eminently practical.” “Younger sister?” I ask. “No, no. Half-sister as you say here. Older by ten years.” “Will her family be coming, too, then?” A look of puzzlement crosses his face, then he laughs, “No. Najwa is a widow, without children of her own.” “I see.” “What would you think if Nura and Najwa take an apartment in the same building as you? Perhaps somewhere more … up-to-date then your current building? I would pay all aspects of your move, and any down payment for a condominium or rental deposit if renting.” Disrupt my life? “I’m afraid going upscale is beyond my means,” I chuckle. “Oh, you needn’t worry about that, Dr. Kent. It is the least I can do for your generosity in helping my daughter.” I shouldn’t be amazed at this offer, yet I am. Unused to casual wealth. “You would not want her to continue as a roommate to Ms. Radley and Ms. Kucera?” He shrugs, “I met them briefly a year ago. Pleasant young women as I recall. I thought then that it would be good for Nura to be with friends. They all seemed serious about their studies.” He considers, “I would leave that to Nura to decide, whether to have them join her and Najwa. I want her new home to have better security — a doorman, those sorts of things.” Wanting his daughter to be safe. Still, I say, “I can understand your intention, sir. Personally, though, I have no desire to be in such a building. Nor to move, really.” He considers, then says, “It would only be for two years. If I buy the condominium outright and gift you with it, you could then sell it after Nura’s graduation and return to living in a simpler arrangement.” Seeing that I may become stubborn, he appeals further, “Please, Dr. Kent, you would be an honorary uncle to my girls. I can think of no one else here to whom I

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell would entrust my treasures.” He sighs, “If not, then I believe I must withdraw Nura from Lincoln Willard College. Perhaps transfer her to a school in D.C., or return her to Sharjah.” That hurts, the idea of losing a promising mind like Nura’s. A diligent and able student that no doubt Georgetown, American, or George Washington University in D.C. would be happy to gain. Plus her full tuition. “We would hate to lose her at LWC,” I say, temporizing. Mus’ad al Razi nods, goes on, “I believe we would need to make your status as honorary uncle somewhat official. A power of attorney on their behalf, or some such. What is the phrase the school uses? In loco parentis?” This feels like the Mango people, as if I’ve already agreed. Madzie always said I’m too easy with others, too accommodating. And I realize I will agree, however reluctantly. “Alright, Mr. al Razi. For your daughter’s sake.” “Good. I have this week I can be in Lake Shore. Starting tomorrow, we can commence making these changes.” “You have discussed this with your daughter? She is agreeable?” He smiles, “A dutiful girl. In this instance, as she wants to continue at Lincoln Willard, she is agreeable to the conditions I impose.” Then he chuckles, “Were she not, no doubt I would never hear the end of it from her, and possibly her mother.” “Mr. al Razi, I do have classes to teach this week. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at LWC. Tuesday and Thursday at the Saints in the city. Monday night with Whitaker.” “We will take your timing into account. As honorary uncle, you are also an honorary brother. May I call you Auberon, Dr. Kent? And do me the honor of calling me Mus’ad?” “Of course, thank you.” What else would I say? I’m pretty sure Mus’ad means Lucky in Arabic.

Later in the evening, I get a response from Jiang Lienhua. Her bu hao message of yesterday is explained. Not a Mango issue, I am relieved to hear, but a falling out with her husband. Now resolved, happily. Or, if not happily, acceptably. I know Lienhua is stubborn. She’s told me she has a temper at times, though I’ve not much had occasion to see it when I was in China. My guess is her husband sees it more often. She is impatient with his lack of ambition. Simply pleased that my fears about Mango aren’t realized.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Chapter 12: Box of Memories

Monday is busy, though I do remember to get in candy for Wednesday’s trick or treaters. I don’t need a lot as I only get the few young kids who live in my building. The three LWC classes go well enough, despite the need to say something in each about Nura al Razi, given the abundant rumors. My sense is that a good half of the students attribute her beating to a townie hate crime, with many of the remainder thinking it’s a townie robbery. Some few are feeling that it somehow connects to what happened to Rachel Kucera, the timing of events being too close to be coincidence. Even among those few, only a handful are looking askance at Michael Stroup. I fear I am among that handful. My preparations for the evening Whitaker class were completed Sunday evening, fortunately, as Mus’ad came by to take me around to several condominiums during the late afternoon. One on Reiver near the town shopping district, another in a new building overlooking Waubansee Creek, and a third in the controversial high rise south of the rail line on Peking, toward the lake. To be truthful, I have no great attachment to my current apartment, recognizing its several inconveniences, yet I’ve lived here four years. Moving, I suppose, gives me an opportunity to clear some of the detritus that’s gathered in that time. It would be nice to have a toilet that doesn’t run on and on before finally shutting off. Or a broader sink where I don’t tend to bump my head on the shelf above it. More counter space in the kitchen. Yet would I be expanding my carbon footprint by getting a bigger space? Given my late arrival back, what with sharing a meal with Mus’ad and his consulate associate, I must rush into the Whitaker online class. It isn’t until afterwards that I get to look at today’s mail. A medium-size cardboard box has arrived from Wisconsin. The box is somewhat the worse for wear from its travels, or maybe it began its journey in a worn state. Presumably inside is a smaller wooden box. From the Aagaards, it will be the family photos and whatnot that Rudiger warned me about. I feel some trepidation contemplating the wide tape securing the flaps. I am guessing that Dad put away all the photos and other stuff of my mother. Probably couldn’t bear to toss it all out or burn it, but didn’t want it around either after she left. I was twelve at the time, Rudiger was seven. Which means she was thirty-two when she left us. Dad would say left him, left the farm. He always defended her, saying farm life simply wasn’t for her. That she’d tried for years and years. A devotee of Good Housekeeping magazine and, later, of Martha Stewart. Always trying to make the farm a kind of show case despite the very real constraints on what could be afforded. Trying to make her kids a showcase, too. Rudiger, I know, was glad she left. It was more peaceful afterwards. Though I remember earlier years when she was loving and less distraught. I don’t know that Rudiger has such memories.

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So staring at this box, I’m not certain I want to open it. I put it away in the closet. Maybe some future day, I’ll open it.

A cake for my tenth birthday, frosted beautifully, candles alight. Just like the photo in the magazine. My mother crying in her bedroom. Dad trying to understand why. Because she’ll never be able to make another cake that turned out so perfectly.

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Chapter 13: A Promise

Meeting Rudiger tonight for supper at a Mexican restaurant in the city. You’d think he’d get enough Mexican cuisine living in Colorado. Not that I mind, especially as we have some tasty places. The one he’s picked has a good reputation, though I’ve not been there before. My restaurant experiences, not counting St. Drogo’s, are limited any more. Given my classes this morning at the Saints, I elected to stay down in the city for the day, rather than going back and forth. Some class preparations and grading’s done at a café, then visits to the cultural center to see their free exhibits. Now I’m at the art museum, which is free starting at 5:00 on Thursdays to local residents. I don’t meet my brother until 7:30. Browsing the exhibit of Katsushika Hokusai’s works is inspiring. I was familiar with several images, the Great Wave view of Mt. Fuji being his most famous, though not of the artist himself. A long life, from 1760 to 1849, with his most famous works produced after age 60. That’s what intrigues me. Maybe counting myself a failure at 43 is premature. I pause at New Year’s Day at Ogi-ya Brothel, done in 1811, when the artist was over fifty. Makes me think of my friend, Yan Chilian, quite lovely though poorly educated and, perhaps, not especially bright. What is a girl from a rural village to do when coming to a city like Shenzhen? You could say she took an easy path, but I doubt such a life is easy. And now she’s supporting her mother, too. A most lovely body, lithe and fine. A kind of innocence to her, not in sexual matters, but in her hopes and wants. She thinking she is knowing of men. One can’t help feeling protective of her. I move on to other prints of Hokusai’s.

Walking to the restaurant, I’m thinking about the last couple days. They were alright. Visited Nura al Razi at the hospital with her father. She should be released tomorrow. We — Mus’ad and I — have chosen a building with a pair of available condominiums, mine on the second floor and Nura’s on the third. Mus’ad is with the realtor and lawyers today, closing the deal. The place is also on Gulliver but four blocks further east than my current address. On the corner of Pottawatomi and Gulliver, new construction. Closer to LWC and the shopping district, yet close enough that St. Drogo is still convenient. Though Mus’ad was somewhat bemused yesterday when I insisted on being home by late afternoon but I knew I’d have all seven kids from the apartment building trick-or-treating. And I gave out the seven full-sized candy bars. Last night I called Jules. We may get together this weekend but I have no sense of urgency on her part. Nor on mine. Maybe that was a one-time thing. Or maybe she’s just busy. Some curiosity about Rudiger, why he wants to get together. My brother, younger and taller, more intense, quicker to make decisions. Running rather than walking. Talking rather than listening. Yet, for all that, good with animals.

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The restaurant is long and narrow, on the corner of the street. Sort of a buffet or cafeteria style, though you order the food from the chalked menu, getting your own drink unless you order one of their Mexican hot chocolates, which I do, the spiced Aztec version. Along with a roast pork sandwich and an apple dessert-empanada. Rudiger, who met me outside — a brief handshake like Dad would have done — is ordering a soup, a carnitas caldo. With a beer. Each paying for his own. Then at one of the high counter tables. A few mumbles about family for him and classes for me as we eat, with me still wondering why he wanted to meet. He dwells on his wife and kids. His daughter Chloe, especially. Soccer, piano, and Girl Scouts. Skyler, the young boy, more into video games, though he’s a reader, too. Joanna having a job now, working at a local museum, doing publicity. Not that it pays much. Few questions for me. Meal done, Rudiger says, “Want to get a drink? Go to that place on down the street?” I nod, still waiting to see what this about. We go on down. It’s another restaurant, casual Italian, but the bar is extensive. I decide on a chianti, something relatively light. Rudiger orders a rye whiskey, leaving me thinking that I might have gone with Jack Daniels. We move from the bar itself to a booth. A pause while Rudiger considers what he’s going to say next, then, “Come next week, probably on Wednesday, I’m going to be indicted.” “Indicted? For what?” “Fraud.” “Are you guilty?” Rudiger sighs. “Sort of.” “What does that mean?” “You know I’m a principal in several REITs, right?” Real estate investment trusts, I think, translating the jargon. “Like what you wanted me to invest in back in early February.” He hesitates, nods, “We were doing great through 2014. Divested some of the mall properties, took up some dairy farms, you know, commercial level. Three hundred, four hundred cows. I was the dairy expert.” His laugh a painful bark. Dairy prices peaked in 2014. They’re in the crapper today. Almost no one making money. More than six hundred farms in Wisconsin alone went to the wall in a year, sold out, shut down, bankrupt. I may not be a farmer but I keep up. “So what happened?” “I propped it up. Fudged the books, put in my own money. Trying to keep it going.” The look on his face just short of tears. “A Ponzi scheme?” I ask. Giving a return to old investors via the buy-in by new investors. Great, so long as you can get new investors. He nods, “By last winter I was desperate.” “You called me.” “I called everyone I could think of,” he admits. “Took out a second mortgage on the house. Did everything I could.” “So what happens next?”

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“Indicted, arrested, convicted, imprisoned,” he says. He sighs again, “House gone, cars, everything. Money for the kids’ education at least is in a trust. College fund, you know. Only thing I didn’t touch.” Probably small consolation to Joanna and the kids. “Ah, Rudiger,” I shake my head. Truly sorry to hear all this. God, how I’d rather he be a great success. Ask, “Joanna knows?” He hurries on, not wanting sympathy, “Yes. I think she’s going to stand by me — not certain yet, but I think so, maybe for the kids’ sake.” “She’s furious?” He blows out a breath, “An understatement. I’d say she’s volcanic.” “Her family knows, too?” Joanna comes from one of those patriarchal-type families, the paterfamilias busily involved in the lives of all his kids. All six of them, though they range in age from 45 to 28, and all but one married. “Doyle, you mean,” a bitter laugh. “Telling Joanna to divorce me. Have her move back in with him and Patsy. Wants my kids for himself.” Patsy’s the unmarried girl. The man’s wife died after the seventh child was stillborn. That’s as much of Joanna’s family history that I know, gotten in bits and pieces over years. My only time meeting the extended clan was when Rudiger and Joanna married. “Joanna doesn’t get along with her dad,” I say. “No, but he’d love having her under his thumb again, says what else is she going to do, all the money gone.” I understand. Meeting Doyle just that one time was enough. “If all the money’s gone, what’s that mean for the prosecution? You didn’t gain from all this.” “Still culpable,” he sighs. “Some of my partners got out. They kept their shares. Probably looking for countries where they can live cheaply and not be extradited.” The latter said bitterly. I say, “Mostly nations in Africa, the Middle East, Eastern Europe, or Southeast Asia, and some of the Pacific Island nations. If I were them I’d consider Morocco, Algeria, or Tunisia.” Bitter laugh, and Rudiger says, “I thought you’d pick China. Or the Emirates.” I shrug, “You admit guilt, testify honestly, can show you didn’t profit, so what do you get? A couple years sentenced, then off early for good behavior.” He groans. “I’m ruined, Auberon. My life is a shambles. I may lose my family. There’s no money for them.” I think about it. Can I live on $24,000 a year after sending a $1,000 a month to Joanna? Sure, somehow. Could I get the $10,000 back from Sam sooner? “I could send maybe $750 a month to Joanna.” He looks at me, stares really, then laughs. “Oh, brother, you are such a fucking dear. You live in a different world. Our monthly grocery bill is likely $750. No, I don’t want your money, Auberon.” Really, that much on groceries for a family of four? I suppose it’s possible. They must not eat as much beans and rice. “What can I do, Rudiger?” “You can stay in touch with Chloe and Skyler. Do something more than send two books a year for each. Call them, send letters, be a Facebook friend, twitter, Instagram, visit, show you care, be a real uncle.”

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Wow, that hurts, probably ‘cause it’s true. They’re my niece and nephew. “I can do that.” He sits back, nods, “Okay then. That’s what I want from you. Promise?” “Yes, I promise.” How many years does Rudiger think he’s going to prison?

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell

Chapter 14: Flying

No Jules’ date on the weekend but I did see her at Jack Guilfoyle’s studio. Tried the live- model drawing. Much tougher than the sketching from photos that I’ve been doing. She and I caught up a bit, but whatever chemistry we had has evaporated. Even drawing, I could view her body objectively. Maybe it was her comment that I’m the 42nd notch on her lipstick case. Tomorrow is the mid-term elections. So much angst over whether the Democrats or Republicans will come out on top. I know that it matters, given the havoc Trump and his minions are wreaking, yet come Wednesday, he’s still going to be president. I’ll vote, of course. I always do, a civic duty at the least and a privileged right at the most. I’ve even looked up all the judges to decide which to vote retention, and which not. Despite this, my reaction to all the news and hullabaloo is muted. Maybe because I distrust any government, though I do despise Donald Trump more than most politicians. Well, maybe not, there’s any number of Republicans I despise currently. All those who wrap themselves in zealous Christianity and xenophobic nationalism to cloak their own intolerance, greed, and other depravities. Which seems to define the Republicans anymore, though that wasn’t always the case before Reagan. It was once a respectable political party. A calming sip of mocha. The welcome respite. St. Drogo’s is surprisingly busy for a Monday. We’re bearing down in the classes, papers due before the Thanksgiving break, though mid-term exams are past. So a number of students here, working away on their laptops, shuffling through notes or scanning books. As for departmental politics, at the moment my sense is Eric Munsen is coming out on top. There is, finally, talk of Ed Placek retiring. If that happens, it could be a blessing regardless whether the departments merge. I’d like seeing Harper as our department head. Another sip as I stare at the painting of St. Drogo on the wall. A lop-sided face, drooping to one side, with wens and other protuberances and blemishes, though an angelic smile and bright merry eyes. Not a portrait as such, being imagined by the artist as no life likenesses exist. Perhaps the artist thought of Drogo as having suffered a stroke? “Don’t tell Emmanuelle, but I think I’ll have St. Drogo painted over,” says Sam, standing next to me. “He unnerves some customers.” “Maybe you could have a smaller version, not quite as extreme,” I offer, though I’ve grown to like the painting. “I’m thinking a map of the world. We have so many international students who come in,” answers Sam. Maybe she’s testing the waters to see what the regulars think? “Personally, I kind of like St. Drogo there. If you do maps, you could have distinct maps of Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas. Then for Europe, a circle in north France with a blow-up of the French-Belgian border showing where Sebourg is.” My gestures attempting to show the placement of the continents, the Americas and Europe on one wall, Africa and Asia on the other. “I have never liked the leer on his face,” says Sam. Leer? What I see as an angelic smile? Reminiscent of Mona Lisa’s smile, though less enigmatic. “Well, it’ll be your place in less than a month now.”

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Sam smiles broadly, “It will, won’t it.” My Mango phone buzzes. I fish it out of my backpack, saying, “I’d best take this.” Sam goes on to her duties as I read the text. A new contact, Zhou Maque, a friend of Yan Chilian, will be sending me an invite. Then the message for her. Also a prostitute, I wonder. The name Maque I think is a kind of bird. Pulling up the Xiaoma Cidian app on the laptop, I enter the name. As I suspected, a sparrow. That pretty much confirms her occupation, though yeji, pheasant, is a more common word for a whore. Not likely to be her actual name. And a true pheasant is zhiji. My actual mobile rings its trill. Already? Not yet 6 a.m. in China. Only it’s a call not a weixin message. The number not familiar, maybe one of the many scam calls, except it’s a Colorado prefix so I answer it. “Hello?” “Auberon?” A woman’s voice, unfamiliar. “Yes?” I answer cautiously. “Joanna Kent.” “Oh, Joanna. I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice.” A distinct sniffling, then, “Rudiger … “ A choking sound, “… Rudiger is dead, Auberon.” “Dead?” the word out of context, meaningless. “In the garage, in the car. Carbon monoxide.” “Wait — Rudiger? We were together on Thursday,” I can’t believe it, won’t believe it. No answer at first, then, “He left a note for me.” “A note?” Another choking sound, a sob? “For the insurance. I’ll get the insurance so I don’t have to live with Dad.” The crying distinct now. More choking, “I’m to destroy the note, only let you know.” “When?” It’s real, Rudiger gone. Damn fool. Ah, god, Rudiger, so many bad decisions. My brother, I am so sorry. “Chloe found him this morning.” Chloe, poor kid, what a shock. “She okay?” “Nooo.” Why do I say such stupid things? Feeling numb, I carry on with the call, confirming that the police have been there and other authorities, and that the body is in a funeral home now, helping her figure out the arrangements, what relatives to notify, me volunteering to help on the Kent side, asking after her kids again, agreeing to fly out to Denver tomorrow night. All the while feeling like I’m in a movie, watching this unfold, a fiction. As I end the call, Emmanuelle is there, “Are you alright, Auberon?” Then I realize tears are wetting my cheeks. “My brother … gone.” “Oh, too bad, Auberon.” Somehow her arms are around me, patting my back. The warmth of her comfort feeling good.

Saturday the 10th and I’m flying back home. Trying to read about Roman commerce across the Indian Ocean. The order of service as a book mark, Rudiger Fabrice Kent 1979-2018. Suddenly realizing I’d missed his birthday in August. Mine a week away.

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Voted this past Tuesday after returning from classes at the Saints. Then packing and getting to the airport. Wednesday through Friday with Joanna and the kids, staying at the house because Joanna wouldn’t hear of me being at a hotel. Joanna whom I barely know, Chloe and Skyler, too, for that matter. A Friday service, giving the eulogy. Not many attending, though our Great-Aunt Susan was there, with her caregiver. Doyle and his tribe, too, of course. Doyle trying to interfere with everything, thinking he always knows what’s best for everyone. At the wake he’d mostly talked about how Trump still controlled the Senate, glad the president had rid himself of the weak reed Sessions as Attorney General. Loud, that’s Doyle. Already well moved past any interest in my brother. I don’t know what to feel. Wasted years not being close to my brother, so much regret, guilt. How much of that was due to me? My inattention to anyone other than myself? I can do as I promised. Will do, as I promised. These past three days acquainting myself with Chloe and Skyler. Chloe being the easier of the two. Overhearing her explain to Skyler, “Daddy wasn’t happy. He’d gotten in trouble. He thought this was a way to help mommy.” “Why didn’t he want to help you and me?” being Skyler’s unanswerable response.

This week ends. Back to my Lake Shore concerns, though staying in touch with Joanna, Chloe, and Skyler. Talked with Madzie this past Thursday. Kept up my correspondence, including the Mango correspondence. I guess I need to think about moving. Nura al Razi should be moving, too. Catch up with my students, papers due by the 21st, then reviewing them over the Thanksgiving break. Get a decent mocha. Find myself longing for St. Drogo. Laugh at myself, the church of mocha, St. Drogo as sanctuary.

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Chapter 15: Holidays Coming

On Sunday, Emma Kim is telling me that Nura’s backpack was found in the alleyway off Reiver near the rail line. “Everything still there, laptop, books, papers. Only money taken from her wallet.” “This was when?” “Three days ago, Thursday.” “You learned this from Detective Norbury?” A blush as she says, “Marek. Detective Zalewski.” “Oh?” The younger of the two detectives. “He asked me out.” “That’s good, right?” Rose in her cheeks again, smiling, “Yes.” “No closer to solving the crime?” She shrugs, “He hasn’t said.” Then adds, “I don’t think so.” Another customer comes to the counter. I move to the end as Ryan hands me the mocha, saying, “I heard that your brother died. A shame.” “Yes.” “Emmanuelle said you went out to Denver.” “My brother left a widow and two youngsters.” That’s enough of a story, no need to get into the rest. Clearly he doesn’t know what to say but offers, “Well, I’m glad to see you back.” To change the topic, I lean forward and say more softly, “How goes it with Sam?” He stammers, “Okay, I think.” He pauses, “I don’t know what to do.” “How’s that?” “I have a job prospect in Minnesota, at the University. It’s a big opportunity. I’d need to be there in August next year. Probably move in July.” He gestures at the espresso machine and coffee grinder, “Can’t stay a barista.” “But?” “Well, Samantha.” How deeply smitten is Ryan? “She is a marvel. Of course, there are café’s one could buy in Minnesota.” Saying it as a tease. He nods seriously, “That’s true.”

Later, answering student correspondence at my favorite table, I’m startled when Rachel Kucera comes and takes the seat opposite me. After a brief hello, she asks, “Dr. Kent, would you write a letter of reference for me to use in transferring?” “Yes, if that is what you want.” I don’t need to say it’s late applying for next year. “Where are you thinking about?” “I picked out ten.” She ticks them off on her fingers, “Kenyon, Oberlin, Earlham, DePauw, Kalamazoo, Beloit, Washington University, Grinnnell, Macalester, and Lewis & Clark.” “All in the Midwest except Lewis & Cark.” “My parents wouldn’t want me on the West Coast."

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“So you favor Lewis & Clark.” She grins, “Yes.” More solemnly, “Really, any of them will do.” “You’re from Indianapolis, right? You didn’t consider Butler University?” “Way too close to home,” she says quickly. “Your parents know you want to transfer?” Leaving unsaid the reason she does. “Yes. I told them boy troubles, which is true.” We both know that’s a part, but really it’s the whole campus knowing or, at least, guessing what happened. “I’m sorry to lose you as a student, Rachel. I’ll have the letter for you by tomorrow.” “Thank you, Dr. Kent. For everything.” She gets up, looks at me a moment longer, “I enjoy your classes.”

At home, I catch up on mail, which I’d ignored getting in so late yesterday. Four days worth of mostly advertisements and a few bills. At least with the election past, there’s no political advertising. The formal invitation from Harper for Thanksgiving. I have joined her family and several of their friends the last three years. Christmas I won’t be here. My annual trip to Hong Kong, going to my usual somewhat seedy but cheap hotel away from the main tourist areas. The air flight is costly enough, even in economy seats. Meals out can be had reasonably, again by staying away from most of the Western style places or the pricier Chinese. I’d rather use my discretionary money on gifts for friends who come down from Shenzhen. The mail task done, I cook a quick supper of ham and cheese omelet, toast, and a side of spinach. I like balsamic vinegar with my cooked spinach, though for variation I’ll use a Chinese oyster sauce. Read with the meal. Then dishes and after, sit down to compose the letter for Ms. Kucera. As I write it occurs to me I’ve not had a Mango request yesterday or today. That’s good in my view. It had been going pretty hot and heavy with the China contacts earlier in the week. Gets me thinking about the Hong Kong trip again. Probably won’t see Wang Xiaohong this time as she’s going back home to Hubei province; giving up on Shenzhen. Urban life too expensive. Whether I see her depends on her timing. Yan Chilian would be willing to visit me in HK if I pay her way. Penelope, Lienhua, and Gong Jiexuan would likely come. Jiexuan with her son and her sister, Xiangying, no doubt. Jiexuan and I worked together on two projects. I know another nine still living in Shenzhen, but they are more acquaintances and unlikely to make the trip down unless it coincides with a day they want to go shopping. Would any of the Mango contacts come? Three are in Shenzhen: Sheng Jun, Juanita, and Zhou Maque. Probably best if they don’t.

In the midst of watching The Quiet American, borrowed from the library, my phone trills. It’s Joanna, an hour earlier in Denver. We chat briefly, mostly about my trip back. Then I speak to Chloe, my niece, talking about Sunday school this morning. Then Skyler gets on to inform me that he had hot chocolate at lunch. After that it’s goodbyes. I guess I am going to be a real uncle, though I suppose I should have thought to call after traveling back rather than Joanna calling me.

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On impulse then, I call Nura al Razi. After greetings and seeing how she’s feeling, I ask about her plans for moving. “My sister is due November 29, so the move is planned for November 30. There is not a lot to move really. But we expect to clean the condo thoroughly, so that will take time. Najwa will work more than me as I am still sore.” Cleaning the condo? I hadn’t thought about that. Maybe the bathroom and kitchen, plus sweeping and dusting. “I haven’t started sorting and packing, that will take some days.” She chuckles, “Yes, your apartment is full up.” “The second bedroom I expect to make into an office. Should give me more room to fill,” laughing. “If you need help packing, we could come by, Alexis, Rachel, and I.” “Will Ms. Kucera and Ms. Radley join you at the new place?” “Yes, though you know Rachel intends to transfer.” “The two of them are friends again.” No answer for a moment, then Ms. al Razi says, “Yes, perhaps not as close.” “Well, I’m glad they can be friends.” “So we help you, yes?” “Well, likely I’ll not do much before Thanksgiving, maybe some sorting and donating, but not packing until after the holiday.” “Alexis and Rachel go to their homes for Thanksgiving weekend. I can help a little.” “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” “Nothing, studying.” “I’ve been invited to Professor Haliwell’s for Thanksgiving. Would you care to accompany me?” Now why did I suggest that? Just picturing her alone, still recovering from her injuries. A longish pause, and then, “Yes, that would be a pleasure.”

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Chapter 16: Swinging Computer Bag

Monday, just after my second class, I receive a call from the Saints. The fellow for whom I was substituting is exonerated and will again be teaching the class. I’m to go in early tomorrow to meet with him to bring him up to speed on what’s been happening in class, transfer papers, test scores, and grades, give him my assessment of the students. Apparently it was a false accusation, a girl disgruntled over her grade. Or maybe just using sexual harassment as an excuse for a poor grade to her parents. It’s not clear to me. Well, good for the fellow; not so good for me. Down to one class there and a hit on my income. The dean at the Saints doesn’t have anything immediate to take up the slack, but assures me that next semester she’ll find something for me. Will give it some thought and planning. I can’t count on it, I know. On the other hand, I won’t be paying rent after this month if I can sublet my apartment. The condo is mine outright, with association fees and property taxes paid through the next twelve months. The utilities I pick up, which were included in my rent at the apartment. Still, it should more than make up for the loss of the Saints’ class. Provided I can get a quick sublet. Bad time of year for subletting, but I’ve got it up online and posted at LWC.

Walking back from LWC, I find myself thinking about Rudiger. Our age difference enough that I was often impatient with him when we were young. He always getting into my stuff or wanting to hang around with me and my friends. Is that what caused us to be estranged as adults, lay the groundwork? Did he like working with Dad because I resented the endless farm work? Taking different paths. Maybe it really was my fault, us being so far apart. But you can’t undo the past. So while I regret it, it does no good to flay myself over it. On ahead, I see Michael Stroup and Geoffrey Burke walking together. Michael is re- instated, back in classes. Suffered a warning but no more than that. Doubtless they’re headed to St. Drogo. Makes me hesitate about going there. Except where else would I get as good a mocha, or see Emmanuelle and Sam?

Fortunately Stroup and Burke take the plush seats in back. At my usual table I don’t see or hear them. My distaste for Stroup I largely bridle in class, but I don’t want to test it outside of school. Several of my other students are here, mostly working on laptops, though more conversationally than if they were at the LWC library. Kyle Janes is in earnest talk with Nick Staszak, possibly over their papers for the Dynamics class, though they could share other classes, other professors. Megan Nowak is working on the Entrepreneurship paper based on the two books she’s consulting as she writes. Of course, there are other students from LWC here as well. I am re-examining my budget, trying to factor in the diminished Saints income. Let’s say I don’t get a sublet until February, so December rent will be due in just under three weeks, then

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January’s a month later. The Dean at the Saints said I would be paid through this week, given the short notice. A sort of severance for the one Thursday class, I suppose, as I will be at that class tomorrow. Emmanuelle stops by my table, “Your birthday on Saturday, right, Auberon” “Reminding me of my mortality?” I ask, jesting. “You’re just a kid, Auberon,” she smiles. I guess she’s eighteen or nineteen years my senior so she can say that. Though maybe she’s right, at soon-to-be forty-four and only responsible for myself. Like a teenager. No Madzie. No kids of my own. Well. maybe I’ve picked up responsibility for Chloe and Skyler — some anyway. Maybe for Nura al Razi, too. I guess I am old enough to be Nura’s father. “Every year a birthday comes round no matter what I do,” I say as if apologizing. “You want them to keep coming, believe me,” she answers as she goes off with the bag of trash from the bin. Good to see that Emmanuelle is doing alright today. No evidence of the RSD or whatever is her malady. Two weeks come Saturday and she’s retired. I close the budget. Fire up the music and put on my ear buds, pull sketchpad, pencils, and a packet of photos from the computer bag. Who should I draw today? Decide on one of the Mango contacts, Juanita. With the preliminary measurements done and Juanita’s features being sketched, I’m thinking she really is quite lovely when a commotion causes me to look up. Stroup and Burke are leaving just as Nura, Alexis, and Rachel are coming in. A brief milling at the door. I’m half out of my chair, ready to intervene, but the altercation is over as quick as it starts. Really, nothing more than glares and words, Burke pushing Stroup on through. Alexis had stepped between Michael Stroup and the other girls anyway. All three brighten when they see me, which is gratifying. Rachel comes over, “Thank you, Dr. Kent. I read the letter you wrote this morning but didn’t want to say anything in class.” Her cheeks redden as she says, “Very complimentary. I hope I can live up to your words.” “Nothing less than you deserve,” I say, a tad gruffly. “I’m sure it will be persuasive with the other colleges.” “I hope so, Rachel.” Realizing as I say it that I’ve not used Ms. Kucera. She smiles. A bright wide smile, registering the use of her given name.

Not feeling like going on to the empty apartment just yet, I decide on a St. Drogo soup for supper and completing the sketch of Juanita in color as well, despite the light fading early since the November 4th time change. Of course, the Whitaker class tonight so I’ll need to be out of here by 6:40 at the latest. After the butternut squash soup and hard roll, with the drawing complete, I start packing my things. Detective Zalewski comes in, making a beeline to the back where Emma Kim is at the counter. Seems like something else good came out of Nura’s beating. The threesome of girls are still here, as well. Laptops open, all diligently working away. The shop about half-full at this hour. Hoisting my laptop bag on my right shoulder, then tucking my scarf into my jacket, I walk toward the door.

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Michael Stroup comes bursting through, a grim determined look to him. Then I realize he has an automatic in his right hand. Others too must have seen it, for several individuals are scrambling to get out of his way. He is focused on the trio at the table on the far side — Rachel, Nura, and Alexis. As he raises the gun, I strike him with the weighted force of my swinging computer bag. It throws him off-balance, but a shot is fired, then a second. I pound him again, and he fires at me. The third swing of my bag whacks his gun hand and he loses his grip. Then Detective Zalewski is there, pinning the boy down.

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Part Three: Into the Heart

Chapter 17: Najwa al Razi Arrives

The hullabaloo over the shooting finally seems to have settled down. It’s been more than two weeks. Thanksgiving interrupted the extended to-do, thank goodness. These past several days I’ve heard no more congratulations for my part in the fray. My fifteen minutes of fame, I guess. A brief media circus, lasting a day or two, but lingering accolades from the campus and local community. Except from Whitaker Online, as I had to cancel class that night. One plus out of it is that I now have my apartment subleased starting December 31. Madzie was in touch too, which felt good. Though she said I’m to expect the divorce to go through by December 15th. I suppose another is that Jules got in touch with me. She and I celebrated my birthday — fortunately the overnight was before I began packing up my towels and sheets. In any event, I finally have my place packed and ready for the move, which will come on Saturday, the first. Tomorrow night is the retirement party for Emmanuelle at St. Drogo, after the regular closing time. I’m looking forward to a nice send off for her, and have an early edition of Charles Baudelaire’s poetry in French to give. I know she favors him. That no one was injured during the shooting is a blessing. St. Drogo’s left eye was drilled by that final shot, which will be a lasting reminder unless Sam has the wall patched and the image painted over. He really does appear to wink now. Of all the thanks and congratulations I received, Mus’ad al Razi’s was the most fervent. He is convinced I saved his daughter from death. I suppose it’s possible. I would have done the same even if she hadn’t been present. I’ve had more than one dream where I failed to stop Michael Stroup. In the dreams, the wild shot that pierced St. Drogo hits me instead. I hope the dreams fade away soon. It’s only this week that I’ve begun coming back to St. Drogo for the mocha.

“I thought we’d find you here,” exclaims Alexis. “Come with us. We’re on our way to the airport to pick up Nura’s sister.” That’s right, Najwa al Razi arrives today. “There won’t be room in your car,” I say. “We have Rachel’s SUV. Come on, hurry Dr. Kent. You’re Nura’s godfather.” I suppose it’s the last word that persuades me. Do Muslims have godfathers? I pack my book and computer away swiftly, then follow Alexis out. The ride is fun, the girls full of merriment. I mostly listen to their chatter. The sling for Nura’s arm is gone. She seems in as high spirits as the other two, who’ve been asking about her sister. “Really?” says Alexis. “You don’t know your sister well?” “Half-sister. Ten years older. She was married and away for several years. Then I come to the U.S. with my father,” explains Nura. “What happened to her husband?” asks Rachel. “An accident. He was into extreme sports like so many of the junior princes.”

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Alexis, “A prince?” Nura shrugs, “There are many of them.” “So what happened?” asks Rachel. “He fell climbing in the Austrian Alps.” A moment of silence, then Alexis says, “Your sister didn’t re-marry.” “No, I don’t think she wants to. Feels free as a widow. There are no children, as she wasn’t married long.” Nura smiles, “My father would like her to marry again.” “He’d like you to marry after graduation, too,” says Rachel. Nura makes a face, “We disagree. The boy he picked … “ she shakes her head “… is just okay. Not to set my heart a flutter.” She chuckles. “Not like Dr. Kent,” laughs Alexis. “What?” I manage, as Nura pushes Alexis’ shoulder, saying “Shush.” Nura turns to me, “Alexis makes too much of it. I once say if you were a younger man, I could see you as husband material.” “Husband material? Me?” I laugh, “Not hardly. Anyway, I’m married.” “To Dr. Madzia Roza Zawacki, Professor of Mathematics,” says Rachel. “We looked her up. She’s in Connecticut.” “As mysterious as Emmanuelle’s husband, Gregor,” adds Alexis. “You two don’t live together either.” To change the subject, I ask, “Why did your sister agree to come to Lake Shore?” “My father asks.” Nura gestures, “Najwa will experience America. Maybe tired of living in France, all the tensions over there.” “Tensions here, too,” says Rachel. “You were attacked, Nura.” “I think was Michael Stroup and his friend,” says Nura. The trial of Stroup will be coming up in another few weeks. Likely we’ll be testifying. “Your sister doesn’t live in Sharjah?” I ask. “Part of the year; part in Nimes, the south of France.” “Not Paris?” asks Alexis. “I’d live in Paris.” “She likes the warmer south better.” Rachel laughs, “She won’t like winter here.” On that we all agree.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. No hajib for Najwa al Razi, but no Parisian fashion either. Practical clothing, a zippered vest in blue fabric figured with mostly red flowers, under an open black cloth coat and over a white blouse and black slacks. Head scarf matching her vest. Slim good-sized handbag, with room enough for an iPad or something equivalent. Black leather gloves. Apparently, she is fully expecting the couple inches of snow outside. As for the woman herself, a more mature version of Nura. Handsome features, no doubt what Nura will grow into. Najwa’s smile is bright as she greets Nura and as Nura introduces us to her sister. Najwa attentive, eyes searching each of us in turn, I feel her preliminary appraisal as we shake hands, though I am making an early judgments of her as well. On the face of it, I like what I see in Nura’s sister, the same intelligence. Whether the same good character, time will tell. At Baggage Claim, we wait. The girls full of questions and comments for Najwa. My Mango phone buzzes, a surprise as I’ve not heard from them these past couple weeks, ever

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell since Michael Stroup went berserk. Excusing myself, I step away. It’s a call not a text. I hear Joyce Nierman, “Dr. Kent?” “Yes? Hello.” “Let’s meet tomorrow. At the Lake Shore Library, the Carnegie Street entrance, 4:30.” “I can do that.” A little tight from my Dynamics class but doable, I think. I know better than to ask what’s up over the phone. “See you then.” Clicks off. Probably significant that she doesn’t want to meet at St. Drogo. Given their silence these few weeks, I guess it has to do with the brief notoriety from the Stroup incident. Well. tomorrow is soon enough. I wonder if my role will be concluded. That would be a relief. “Dr. Kent,” calls Alexis. “Najwa’s suitcase, duffle, and boxes are here.” Three boxes, she really is moving here.

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Chapter 18: Mango

I’m tardy going to meet with the Mango people. It’s a bit over a ten-block walk from LWC to the public library, and I got off late due to student questions. I should have biked it, but I don’t like biking in the slush of snow. By the time I’m going up the steps, I feel overheated. Nierman is waiting just beyond the entryway. As I come up to her, she says, “Pritchard is at the coffee shop. We’ll meet him there.” She’s referring to the downstairs shop, next to the museum store, as the building houses both the library and the historical society’s museum. We find Fletcher Pritchard at a back table, a coffee before him. Nierman says to me, “What do you want, Dr. Kent? I’ll get it,” gesturing at the café counter. I know to avoid their mocha here, and say, “Cappuccino.” I always feel a twinge of disloyalty to St. Drogo when in a different Lake Shore café. Nodding to Pritchard, I join him at the table. “You’re doing well, Dr. Kent?” he asks. “Yes, all’s well.” “Good. I understand you’re moving.” So they do keep track of me, I think, “Yes, tomorrow.” Pritchard smiles, “Mr. al Razi is generous in his gratitude.” “Fortunately for me,” I agree. “It does seem extreme, but, apparently, not to him.” Pritchard chuckles. Then Nierman is here with my cappuccino and her coffee, black like Pritchard’s. I did read a piece recently that claimed psychopaths are more likely to drink their coffee black. Not that I’m accusing them. Anyway, my dad and Rudiger drank theirs black, too. It’s Nierman who gets down to business. “You’ve hit the news twice, Dr. Kent. The first was purely local to Colorado, identified as the brother of Rudiger Kent.” She pauses, adds, “Sorry for your loss, of course, but our concern is the confidentiality of our arrangement.” She hesitates, looking for my reaction so I nod. She goes on, “The greater concern for us was the notice you received over your Michael Stroup heroics.” I shrug, “It was just instinctual.” “Understandable,” says Pritchard, “but, from our view, we’d rather you not receive attention.” “Yes,” says Nierman. “Especially attention that focuses on your international connections, like Ms. al Razi and The Emirates.” Pritchard picks up, “As you’ve noticed, no doubt, we ceased using you as a conduit for the past two weeks. We believe we can recommence with your China connections, but will discontinue for the time being the others in India, The Emirates, and Europe.” “And the New York connection at the UN,” supplies Nierman. The Emirates? I think. That can only be Radwa al Malik, Nura’s friend. That surprises me as they’ve never sent me a text for her. “I see. Is there any danger to my contacts?” “A precaution only,” says Pritchard. Maybe too quickly. Nierman says, “Please continue to greet them, as you would any of your friends. Simply don’t expect to be forwarding any of our messages.” Pritchard goes on, “You have a flight scheduled for December 20 to Hong Kong.”

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“Yes, exams end on the 19th for my students.” “Arriving on the 21st and returning on Tuesday, the 1st of January.” “Air fares are cheaper that day,” I explain. The man nods, “Then you fly out again on the 4th to Denver and back on the 8th.” “It was too late to change the Hong Kong trip, so I’ll go see my niece and nephew after my holiday.” Neither comment, so I add, “Classes begin on the 22nd of January, though I have departmental meetings in the days prior to that.” “Michael Stroup’s trial starts December 17,” says Nierman. “Yes. I’m told it is expected to be no more than two days. My testimony is planned for that Monday afternoon.” “If he pleads guilty, they’ll be no trial,” says Pritchard. “True,” I agree. “The trial could occasion further notice of you, Dr. Kent,” explains Nierman. I nod, seeing their concern. They exchange glances, then Pritchard changes the topic. “You have four of our contacts in China. When you visit Hong Kong, it’s typical for a few of your friends from Shenzhen to come visit you there, correct?” “Yes. I know Penelope is planning to — Li Panpan. Jiang Lienhua and Gong Jiexuan are likely, too. Possibly Yan Chilian.” “There would be nothing unusual, then, if a new contact came to see you, especially if in company with one of your friends?” asks Pritchard. “I suppose not,” though the idea gives me some anxiety. There are three Mango contacts in Shenzhen: Juanita, Sheng Jun, and Zhou Maque. Nierman says, “We would want it to be innocuous. Unlikely that we would have you exchange any of our information. Simply a casual visit in keeping with their cover.” “I see.” Well, that sounds alright since such contact is known by anyone monitoring my wechat exchanges. “Not all three in Shenzhen, surely.” “No, I don’t expect so,” says Nierman. “One, possibly two if Yan Chilian comes to you.” She grins, knowing Chilian’s profession. “Alright.” Pritchard drinks down his coffee, says, “That’s it then.” “Keep up the good work, Dr. Kent,” says Nierman. “It truly is helpful.” I hope so, yet have my doubts. I have wondered if I’m kind of a red herring — my contacts being throw-aways masking more serious espionage. I suppose Sheng Jun might be involved in some kind of smuggling. And Juanita might pass on industrial secrets regarding AI at Ten Cent. But Yan Chilian’s friend Zhou Maque gaining any pillow talk from someone important? That I doubt. All of it seems low-level stuff, nothing vital. Still, I nod, “Good.”

The party for Emmanuelle’s retirement is in full swing. St. Drogo’s is packed wall-to- wall, although a tight space is given over for Flock of Birds to play, including a minute dance floor. Employees, friends, many of St. Drogo’s regulars, and her family are here. There is, in fact, a Gregor, her husband, as well as a grown daughter, Cheri, and her husband with Emmanuelle’s twin grandchildren. Gregor proves to be a decade older than Emmanuelle, and Russian rather than French. Apparently French is what is spoken at home as his English is mediocre at best. Tall, with bald-

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell head and beard, he is a painter, both of house interiors and exteriors, and of landscapes in his studio, which Emmanuelle says are reminiscent of Gustav Klimt’s landscapes, more patterns than realism. My gift of the volume of Baudelaire’s poetry is well received, for which I get a buss on each cheek from both Emmanuelle and Gregor. As well, we each quaff a shot-glass full of Czech slivovitz at room temperature to get the full effect of its plum aroma and high-proof, toasting the new era of Emmanuelle’s retirement life. After that, I take a chair pushed up against the wall to sit and observe the festivities. Flock is doing one of their slow-tempo pieces, Radiant Heart, to which I see Sam and Ryan, as well as others, dancing; Ryan’s hand splayed on Sam’s lower back and upper buttocks. I assume that’s a sign he’s making progress with her. Emma Kim is busy at the counter, acting as bartender instead of barista. With her are two other employees, morning crew that I barely know, and, surprisingly, Marek Zalewski, the detective. I see Mrs. Seaver, the elderly regular newspaper reader, looking a bit desperate in the crush. I wave to her to come and take my seat. “Thank you, Dr. Kent. I fear my cappuccino sloshed all over the floor” “I doubt anyone will notice. Looks like you still have half a cup.” Seeking reassurance she asks, “Everything here will stay the same, right? Under Samantha?” “Perhaps not everything, but the essentials.” Seated now, she nods, “Good. If the Raineys had bought St. Drogo they would have made it all shiny and modern.” “Probably would have expanded the menu,” I agree. “Made it one of those busy lunch places,” she says with distaste. “Changed the name. Painted out our ugly St. Drogo.” I refrain from saying that Sam is considering the same. She goes on, “Emmanuelle and I attend the same church, you know. Same as the Raineys. I know them, you see, quite ambitious people, seeing money opportunities in everything they do.” “We all have to earn a living.” “True, but earning a living isn’t the first goal of life.” She looks up at me, “It isn’t for you, is it, Dr. Kent? Or you would still be a consultant, not a scholar.” She knows more about me than I expected, though whether I’m truly a scholar I doubt. I am a teacher — that much I’m confident of. “I suppose you’re right, Mrs. Seaver.” “Barbara,” she says, extending a hand. “Auberon,” I answer, shaking. She smiles, “My Robert was an autodidact. A butcher by trade, and then a landlord. Less than high school because he had to go out and work to support his family after his dad died. So money was important, but not all consuming. Self-taught. Many interests — hobbies, you know — model airplanes, the big ones of balsa wood and small engines, and coin collecting, woodworking, too. Church, too, always active in the church. A believer.” Somehow the way she says it tells me she’s not a believer, church likely being a social entity for her. “You are a widow, then, Mrs. Seaver?” “Four years now, though really longer due to his Alzheimer’s. Sad really. Alzheimer’s robs you of your soul, your essence, who you are. You understand?”

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“Your identity,” I offer. She nods, absently, maybe caught in a memory momentarily. Then, brightening, she says, ”You should take a turn on the dance floor. Take Emmanuelle or Samantha out for a swing.” “I think Ryan has Sam covered.” She chortles, “So I’ve noticed. They make a fine couple.” Then, “Gregor will lend you Emmanuelle.” “How about yourself, Barbara?” I gesture at the dancing, which is now energetic with one of Flock’s rocking songs. “Oh, my hips wouldn’t take it. Find Emmanuelle or borrow someone else, one of your academic friends.” She points, and I see that Amy G is here, as well as Dean Selfridge and some others. Would Harper be here? I’d like to dance with Harper.

An hour later, and I’ve danced with Emmanuelle, Amy G, Carolyn Selfridge, Sam, and, briefly, Makayla from Flock when Lauren Howell was singing. Harper isn’t here. Sweaty and a little breathless, I find my chair again, Mrs. Seaver having departed. “You really can dance, Dr. Kent,” says Alexis, coming up to me in company with Rachel, Nura, and Najwa. Apparently they arrived while I was on the dance floor. “Is that surprising”” I ask with mock severity. “You are almost my father’s age,” says Nura. “And your father doesn’t dance?” “Oh, he does,” supplies Najwa. She gestures, “Only not this type of dancing.” Rachel asks, “Can we get you a drink, Dr. Kent? Something refreshing.” “If they’ve got their mango drink,” I answer, that sounding good to me rather than alcohol or caffeine. The girls go off, working their way through the crowd to the counter. Leaving me to think about something Carolyn Selfridge said while we were dancing. Come next semester, January, Eric Munsen will be appointed head of the combined department. Ed Placek will retire at the end of the academic year, in May. I’m not sure yet what that will mean for me other than it means change. From Ed I had grudging respect and a known place in the curriculum. What I will have with Eric remains to be seen. Probably little change for the second semester, but much more come next fall. I’m not sure I want Eric Munsen for my boss. Though Amy G doesn’t seem to mind. The girls come back and Rachel hands me a frothy mango frappe, and has one of her own. Alexis has a beer and the al Razi girls have Americanos. I offer my chair to Najwa, as the eldest, she laughs, saying, ”No, no, do I seem so ancient?” “Not at all,” I protest. Rachel says, “Dr. Kent always tries to be polite.” “Only tries?” asks Najwa. “It’s hard anymore to know the difference between being polite and being sexist,” I answer. “You sit, Dr. Kent,” insists Najwa. “You are the elder here.” “Now you’ve hurt his feelings,” giggles Alexis. “He hates feeling old.”

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“I don’t mind being old,” I answer, “I just dislike my body aging.” “Harder for a woman,” says Alexis. “By mid-thirties, we’re already past our prime.” Najwa looks a bit pained by that comment, and Nura quickly says, “Average age for a woman having a first child is 28 in America, with many more having a first child in their thirties.” “True,” says Alexis. “Like in England, Meghan is 37.” She referring to the American who married the British prince. “What’s the average age for a man?” I ask. “Younger than you, Dr. Kent,” says Alexis chuckling. Nura says, “Thirty, almost thirty-one.” Judiciously, Nura adds, “You could be a good father, Dr. Kent.” “You think so?” asks Alexis, cocking her head to look at me. Then smiling, “I suppose so.” I almost tell them of Chloe and Skyler, my niece and nephew, but the thought brings up Rudiger and a stab of sorrow. Rachel says, “We saw you dancing with the band’s lead singer.” “Makayla was a student of mine some years ago at the Saints in the city.” “Does that mean we get to dance with you after we graduate?” laughs Alexis. “Najwa’s not a student, she could dance with him now,” supplies Nura. I shake my head no, “I am in loco parentis for you two.” Najwa says, “Only for Nura. Not for me, Dr. Kent.” Still, I’m not certain her father would approve, so I simply answer, “Of course, you’re correct.” We chat a bit longer, mostly about tomorrow’s move to the condominium. Then the girls go off to introduce Najwa to some others. Finishing my frappe, I think it may be time I head home. Lots of work with the move come the morning. Only Rachel comes back, bringing a chair to sit by me. Nothing is said for a time as we watch the crowd, then Rachel says, “I have a problem, Dr. Kent.” I look at her, though she is staring ahead, “Yes?” “I think I’m pregnant.” Damnation, I think, MIchael Stroup. “The rape.” She nods, considers, “I haven’t told my family about all that. My father and brothers would go ballistic.” The allegations against Stroup about a rape had come out in the fallout from the shooting, but the girl wasn’t identified in the news. At least, not to my knowledge. “So what are you thinking, Rachel? Terminate the pregnancy? Keep it all secret.” “Is that what I should do?” “Barring a miscarriage, there are two options, giving birth or abortion. If you give birth, there are two options, giving up the child or raising it.” Saying what she already knows, I’m sure. “I’d give birth except I don’t want Michael to have any claim on me or the baby.” There are dark-ages states in the union that would give the father a claim even in these circumstances, I know. I’m not sure if our state is one of them. I don’t think so. “How can I help, Rachel?”

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She takes a deep breath, then asks, “Can you help me find a doctor? And help me pay for it? I don’t want to use the medical insurance through the school. I don’t know how any of this works.” I don’t tell her that I don’t know either, it never having come up before for me. I must have hesitated because she goes on, “I’d pay you back eventually, Dr. Kent.” “Yes, Rachel, I’ll help. I may need to bring another person, a woman, into it, who would know better than I.” I’m not sure who, but I think a woman should be involved. Maybe Harper, maybe Emmanuelle? No, not Emmanuelle given her church’s stance. For some reason, Amy G occurs to me. Why would she know? Another thought occurs to me, “You had mango, too. Not alcohol or caffeine.” She flushes, nods, “I didn’t want to harm the baby.” “Have you taken a pregnancy test?” “Not yet.” “Then that’s the first step. Let’s make sure.”

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Chapter 19: Anticipating Christmas

When I shift from transferring measures of an image from the photo to the drawing pad and commence limning in the features of the face, the progress becomes a kind of miracle to me, albeit a commonplace miracle that any competent artist experiences. Often the pencil sketch is quite satisfying, but fraught with danger as I use the colored pencils to fill, blend, and shade. It is so easy to go awry. When it works well, though, it amazes me. And today’s drawing quite pleases me. It is of Emmanuelle, from a photograph taken at the party six days past. I think I’ve managed to capture the delight on her face when she was watching her granddaughter. I want to show it to Sam, except Sam is in a foul mood. Not that it’s evident to many. She just seems subdued, quiet, reticent. Not the usual ebullient Sam. The reason, I’m pretty sure, is that Ryan told her his plans for next year. Maybe he did more; maybe he asked her to join him, perhaps even marry him. Just a few days into her proprietorship of St. Drogo. What the heck, I take the plunge, it could cheer her up a smidge. I take my pad to the counter, catching Sam at a lull, “Want to see my newest sketch?” “That’s a good one, Dr. Kent,” she says. Looking closer, she adds, “Emmanuelle looks so happy.” “Yes, she was watching one of Cheri’s daughters, though I’m not sure if it was Ava or Mia.” The twins are identical, so easily confused. “Not because she was retiring,” says Sam. “Well, I think retiring was kind of bittersweet.” “Maybe. She tells me she’s feeling much better, no RSD flare-ups. She thinks it’s the absence of stress.” “That’s good. Then she made the right choice,” I respond. For just a moment, I think Sam wants to tell me of Ryan, but she turns away and calls over the barista trainee, Fleming, to see the drawing.

Going out St. Drogo’s door I turn left instead of right. My habits haven’t adjusted. Feeling foolish, I turn back to go to the condo. My Mango phone buzzes just then. Unpeeling a glove, I pull it from my coat pocket. Another text for Tina Miao in Beijing. I’ll send it off when I get home. There have been a spate of these texts to Miao Tianxin the last two days. Other texts in the preceding couple days for Sheng Jun and Juanita. I assume the activity level is making up for the couple weeks’ hiatus. About 30° degrees I judge as I turn the corner at Metacom to go to Gulliver. Snow expected tomorrow, just flurries I imagine, maybe heavier than yesterday’s. Feels fine, the sun having come out for a few hours. Coming my way is an East Asian fellow, Chinese I’m guessing. Maybe the parent of an LWC student? He’s looking down at his mobile phone as he walks, touching in some message. My Mango phone buzzes again. For just an instant, I think it must be from the fellow ahead, but realize my reaction is simple paranoia. Again, I fish the phone free. This time the text is for Zhou Maque, a first for her since the shooting.

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The East Asian fellow and I walk by each other, with barely a glance between us.

At the condo, I complete the messages off to China, Yan Chilian and Zhou Maque paired, then Tina Miao’s. A confession, I luxuriate in my new condo. Two bedrooms, one of which is now my office, with built-in bookshelves instead of bricks and boards as the bookcase. An ample living room, with a dining area extension next to a small but cleverly functional kitchen — cupboards, counters, refrigerator, dish washer, all making good use of the space. A bathroom larger and better appointed, with a toilet that does not run after flushing. Closets in the bedroom and office, as well as a storage room by the bathroom with a portion that doubles as a closet for the entryway. A balcony off the living room and a smaller one off the master bedroom, both of which I might use come warm weather. Oh, and an indoor parking space and more storage in the basement, though I have no car, nor anything stored there. After all, I don’t even have a dining table yet. A home fit for an adjunct professor rather than a grad student like my old place. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Bigger carbon footprint. Really, I’m not use to it yet and feel like I’m visiting rather than living here. It’s all so new it could feel like a four-star hotel. Well, three stars maybe, I’d need better towels for four- stars. The ladies have a bigger place a floor above me, but then there are four of them living there. A three-bedroom condo, with a study, as well as the living-dining room combo and a larger kitchen. A bath and a half, and more closets. A laundry room, too. Rachel and Alexis share a bedroom. I’m invited for supper with them tonight, Najwa cooking. Something she’s well accomplished in doing I know from having shared two other meals with them over the past days. Western and Middle Eastern meals thus far. Tonight, she is preparing Indonesian style dishes. I am curious to know how Rachel’s appointment with the doctor went. She remains undecided as of yesterday but was seeing the doctor today to learn more and be examined. The doctor was recommended by Joan Davies. In the end, I asked her to help Rachel rather than Harper or Amy G. Not sure why except she is a mothering-type, with much compassion and, as importantly in this instance, discretion. While waiting to go up for supper, I am answering student emails. I find myself wanting to be lenient for Kyle Janes and Jim McAdoo, since they both helped me with the move. Just the reason I have avoided becoming too familiar with my students. I sigh, trying to strike the right balance, neither lenient nor, in counter poise, severe. Be fair, I admonish myself. My mobile dings. From Yan Chilian, at six-thirty in the morning China time. She’s not one to rise early so she must still be up from last night. Translating the Chinese characters with the app, the message asks if I plan to be in Hong Kong later this month as in the past several years. I reply, ‘Yes. Be arriving on the 21st. Departing on the 1st of January.’ Her next message, ‘do I want she and Maque to join me in HK during that time?’

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A stir in my loins at that thought. Chilian is truly quite lovely. Maque, too? Not an experience I’ve had, two together. Is that what she means? I reply, ‘Yes, want to celebrate Christmas Eve and Day together?’ ‘Shopping on Christmas eve day?’ she asks. Ah, the compensation for their companionship. That’s okay, I think. Replying, ‘that would be fine.’ ‘Then we come, morning, the 24th. Your usual hotel?’ Coupled with an emoticon for laughter. I know she thinks me bizarre for staying where I do, imagining me much wealthier than I am. I think not. Get the shopping done first. I reply, ‘Meet % Arabica at IFC mall? 10 in morning?’ She counters, ‘Budaoweng Hotpot for lunch. Times Square Mall. 11:30’ ‘Okay,’ with smile and thumbs up emoticons. Heart, kiss, and agreement emoticons back. Well, plans for the Hong Kong trip commence. I should ask Penelope, Jiang Lienhua, and Gong Jiexuan if they’d care to meet. While I looked forward to seeing Chilian, I do have mixed feelings. Unlike many, I do not look down upon prostitutes, but buying sex does seem unnecessary to me. Jules comes to mind. Though no transaction as such with Jules, yet the sex, like with Chilian, is both as physically satisfying and as temporary in its linkage, absent love or commitment. Anyway, I’ve known Chilian much longer and we stay in touch, so there is greater connection to her. She’s freely chosen her profession as a reasonable alternative to, say, retail sales or other low-paying job. With Chilian, it’s a clean act, with no ambiguity in the friendly pleasure. We share more than sex — good meals, pleasant conversation, a bit of ourselves, some shopping, experiences, like visiting the art museum or the zoo, things she enjoys. There is no question of relationship or future. Forced prostitution, if trapped by thuggery or dire circumstances, is a social evil and the thuggery rightfully pursued as criminal enterprise. On the other hand, freely chosen prostitution ought to be governed as a legitimate commercial service, not prohibited or stigmatized. My view of it, I tell myself. Having worked my way through that logic, I can anticipate Christmas.

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Chapter 20: Holiday Party

I am dumbstruck. “Say that again?” “Michael Stroup is considering suing you for assault.” It’s a lawyer at the Prosecutor’s office explaining Stroup’s guilty pleas to a variety of lesser charges, as they drop the attempted murder charge. Now Stroup is claiming the gun would never have gone off had I not struck him with my computer bag. Only in America, I think. At least the lawyer, Ms. Curran, is sympathetic, thus the head’s up call. “Ridiculous,” I say. “Yes, but you may need an attorney.” “Surely a judge would call this a frivolous suit. Vindictive at best.” “Possibly. Stroup may just be spouting threats. If there is a suit, it might need to go to court.” Then she adds, “He is a righteous little shit. And his father is worse.” Could Sam sue him for damages, as owner of St. Drogo’s? No, I don’t want to go down that path. “Thank you for letting me know.” “You’re welcome, Dr. Kent. Sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings.” Today is Friday, the trial was to begin on Monday. At least the Mango people will be glad there’s no trial, although a suit against me might be as newsworthy. No, probably not, given 22 mass shootings in the U.S. since then, with 33 dead and 65 wounded. No one was shot at St. Drogo. Most mass shootings don’t get more than local coverage anymore, unless in a school or the shooter racks up more than the usual half-dozen. I know this because I looked it up just now on my mobile; eleven in the South, five in the West, three in the Midwest, and three in the Northeast, counting only those where four or more persons are shot. It occurs to me that I should include workplace violence in my course on cultural impacts. I make a note to investigate the topic. What occupations and industries are most vulnerable? How does the level of violence vary across countries? What is the associated economic loss? I can readily think of a dozen lines of inquiry. Starting place is the sources of statistics and related data. Government sources probably, though specific non-profits and think-tanks might track workplace violence as well. How much of such violence is actually reported? What’s the reliability of the data? This much I know already, women are far more often the victims than men, unlike, say, automobile accidents. “What are you thinking about, Dr. Kent?” Looking up from the notes I’m scribbling, “Hey, Sam, how are you today?” I gesture at the notes, “Just an idea to pursue for my cultural course. Workplace violence.” “What they used to call going postal?” “Yes, though violence includes more than shootings.” Pausing, I then tell her, “Michael Stroup plea bargained his charges down. I‘m told he’s likely to be sentenced to two years and be eligible for probation in three month, less time already served.” I don’t say that the judge could be even more lenient. Of course, the suspicion of rape was not admissible. “He skates then,” says Sam angrily. “Pretty much.”

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She looks to St. Drogo’s image, maybe seeing the eye drilled by Stroup’s bullet. She smiles, “I think the saint looks better, like he’s winking.” Maybe I don’t have to worry about her painting him over. She’s begun making changes, making the place her own. I approve of the expanded espresso drink menu, not just Emmanuelle’s café seven — espresso, doppio, macchiato, cappuccino, caffè Americano, mocha, and latte. Along with them, Samantha’s listed restretto, lungo, caffè crème, caffè noisette, cortado, breve, flat white, and black-eye. Separately she’s posted sweet espresso drinks: affogato, mocha breve, caffè bonbon, and con panna. Many can come iced, con hielo in Italian. Fortunately for me, she’s also put up a simple visual chart explaining each. So now I know the difference between a cortado and a flat white, for example. While I’m pleased for Sam, it becoming her café rather than Emmanuelle’s, I’m also glad essentials are the same. St. Drogo’s still offers the best mocha in town.

Tonight is the faculty Christmas party. Before going I call Chloe and Skyler, this being the weekend before I travel to Hong Kong. Chloe tells me about the school play and her part as the Grinch’s dog. Skyler reports on his dodge-ball game in gym class. Then Joanna and I talk for some time on how she’s doing, most of which is about fending off her father’s attempts to intrude on their lives. The insurance money has not come through yet, but they are scraping by. She pawned her jewelry, sold Rudiger’s vinyl record collection, and has increased her hours at the museum, and no, she doesn’t need money from me. As soon as I’m off the phone, it rings again. Thinking it’s Joanna forgetting to say something, I’m surprised when it’s Madzie. “Auberon, it’s done,” she doesn’t sound happy. “Done?” “The divorce. You’ll be getting the papers. Probably on Monday or Tuesday.” Seems too quick to me. “We could re-marry,” I blurt. Silence, then a sigh. “Auberon, I love Stefania.” “You don’t love me.” “Oh, Auberon, I do but not in the way you want. You are my friend, but no more than that.” Hurts, even though I know it’s true. I can easily remember the first time I met Madzie. Taking a seat next to her at a dinner during an academic conference. She was light and merriment, as the half-dozen of us at that particular table played the mathematical challenges she offered. Not especially difficult so that I even got one right before anyone else. I already knew I would do anything to please her. “Okay, friends.” “Yes. So it will be a July wedding.” She hesitates, adds, “I meant it when I said I want you to give me away.” I nod, though she can’t see it. Realizing I must say somethings, I answer, “I’ll be there for you, Madzie.”

Walking to LWC, I’m not in the mood to party. On the steps of Pratt hall, I remove my gloves, and work the wedding ring off my finger. It takes some effort. Now it’s just a plain gold band again. I put it in my pocket and go on in the doors. The committee went somewhat over-board in decorating the basketball court. Streamers, Santa effigies, reindeer posters, a large Christmas tree fully adorned, and the like,

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell though no cross. DJ rather than a live band. Feels like a high school prom save for the bar and our average age. Not simply faculty, staff and many grad students as well, plus spouses and significant others. The room is thronged, as I am a late arrival. For tonight, at least, the adjunct rebellion is forgiven, for I see the English department’s adjunct lecturer laughing with John Abramson, the Provost. I wasn’t even certain John could laugh. I look for Harper Haliwell. I need a friend. As I come up to our group, I hear Gerald Davies saying, “So the old termagant calls me a thief.” Harper saying, “Because you charged her for the research.” He laughs, “Yes, checking out how the new tax law might affect her various trusts.” He chortles, “She said she shouldn’t have to pay for my training; that’s already in the overhead portion of my fee rate.” Patiently, Joanie, who no doubt has heard this story before, says, “Gerald agreed to charge her only as he applied the changes to her trusts.” Davies scoffs, “As if she’s hard up for money. Owns one in six commercial buildings in town.” Joanie adds, “A major client of Gerald’s.” This echoes in my mind. I’d overheard the other side of this when Mrs. Seaver was talking to one of her biddy friends. I had no idea Mrs. Seaver had such wealth. Harper turns to me, “You need a drink, Auberon; I can tell.” So she and I repair to the bar, where, instead of my usual wine, I order Jack Daniels straight up. It does loosen me up. As the evening goes on I dance with eight or nine of the ladies, though most often with Harper and Amy G. Dancing feeling happier than standing around talking, with the news of Stroup and Madzie nibbling at my mind. The whiskey having worn off with all the exertion, my feet no longer feel nimble. I sit at one of the side tables, watching Amy G and Todd Blinderstaff do an energetic if awkward bouncing kind of dance. Others dancing, too, Harper with her husband are another pair. At a nearby table, just out of earshot with the loud music, Eric Munsen is holding forth to his coterie of sycophants. Well, that may be a harsh judgment. A couple of his department’s more junior professors, not yet tenured, and several of their TAs. One girl, a TA, sits very close to Munsen; a good looking woman of maybe twenty-four. I’ve met her some time or other. Is it Phoebe? Daphne? Phyllis? Surely it can’t be Phyllis, a name fallen in favor for quite some decades. Something with a –ph sound. Where is Munsen’s wife? A bray of laughter from Munsen, with titters all around from the group. Am I jealous? Why does it bother me so? Maybe because I haven’t seen dour Ed Placek and his wife here tonight. Not that I delight in Ed’s presence, but he is a fixture. Though I believe he is certainly due for retirement, I kind of hate the way he’s being pushed out. It comes to me, Felicity, that’s Munsen’s TA’s name. Everyone calls her Flip. “What are you doing sitting by yourself?” asks Paul Petropoulos, his live-in girlfriend, Lisa at his side.

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I gesture at the open chairs, “Join me. My feet got tired,” nodding toward the dance floor. The song ending, Harper and Barry join us. Then Carolyn Selfridge and her husband, Phil Carter, as well. Soon the table is full up, everyone chattering. Before long it’s What are your Christmas plans? Everyone going round the table. I admit to my HK trip, which elicits some supposed envy. Most, though, are talking of family. Going to Uncle Bob and Aunt Marie’s. Taking Olivia and Tyler to Lake Geneva, where Barry’s parents will join them. Twelve for dinner on Christmas day. Topped by fourteen. I listen, thinking, none of them would want to go to Hong Kong for Christmas really. Fly fifteen hours alone on a plane. Hoping to renew friendships. Probably I should have canceled the trip and gone to Colorado. Though I do know it would have disappointed Penelope and Jiang Lienhua. We make family were we can. I catch a penetrating glance from Harper. She taps my vacant ring finger. I nod.

Well after midnight as I walk home. I’m thinking about Sam and Ryan. They seem to be on the outs right now. I’ve always blamed Niven for the ups and downs with Sam, but then I never heard his side of it. Given the down with Ryan, I’m wondering if it’s Sam who’s the issue. Though in this instance, Ryan going away come mid-summer, perhaps Samantha has good cause. Coming up my block, the condo building is just ahead. My corner apartment is dark, but above it I see a light on in the ladies’ condo. College kids up late, no doubt. Though who am I to talk? The curtain moves, it looks like it might be Najwa peering out. I wave, though I doubt she can see me, her view blocked by the parkway trees or, maybe, the brightness of the street lamp on ahead. I cross the street and am soon unlocking my front door. “You are home.” I turn, Najwa standing at the stairwell door, barefoot and a wrap held tightly around herself. “Yes,” I’m surprised and feel concern, “Is there a problem?” She shrugs, shakes her head no. I wait, wondering. “I go back up,” she says. “Goodnight then.” But she’s already closed the door. I’m not sure what to make of that exchange.

Getting into bed, Nura and Najwa are on my mind. Outside of school, Nura’s taken to calling me Aame Auberon rather than Dr. Kent. Aame being ‘my paternal uncle’, I believe, which is a stronger claim than simply the Arabic Aam or a generic uncle used for older men. Najwa still uses Dr. Kent. To be truthful, I’m not sure what to make of Najwa al Razi, the Widow or ‘armala al Qasimi. There are times when she seems gracious, especially over meals, and times when she is curt, almost hostile seeming. Or, if not hostile, moody. Thus tonight’s interlude is all the stranger. I’m sure it’s difficult for her, being here in America, watching over and caring for her half-sister, living with two other college-students, having to interact with another stranger, an

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell older male, to whom her father has granted a limited pseudo-kinship. I don’t know her interests. What her life was like in France and the Emirates. What it is that she wants. Well, I won’t reason it out tonight. I turn out the bedside lamp.

My Mango phone buzzes. It wakes me and I automatically glance at the clock, 4 a.m. It buzzes again. Reaching for it, I knock it off the bedside table. Hoping I didn’t damage it, I retrieve it off the floor. Two texts. One for Zhou Maque in China and another for Radwa al Malik. The latter is surprising, the first text for her, confirming she is a Mango contact, and that they are again having me contact someone outside of China. Does that mean their precautions are done? Do they know there will be no trial? With Maque, there is a parallel message for Yan Chilian. Six in the evening in China. No parallel for Radwa al Malik. Two in the afternoon in the Emirates. Up now, I find my mobile, and send off the messages. Use the bathroom. Debate going back to bed, then do so.

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Chapter 21: Numeric Codes

To be truthful, the Shanghai Red Hotel on the Kowloon side of Hong Kong is not seedy. Might be a two-star hotel or a one-star plus. Rooms are small and bathrooms laughable by American standards. Clean but tiny, with sink, toilet, shower all in one. Yet the bathrooms are private. Efficient use of space, both room and bathroom, almost Japanese scale. If you want opulence, you can spend a thousand plus a night at hotels in Hong Kong. Shanghai Red is a tenth of that at the height of the tourist season, and much less on the off season. At Christmas time, Hong Kong is a major tourist attraction, even now under the Communist Mainlanders. Anyway, I’m tired and need the shower to rejuvenate after the long flight. Seven movies long. It’s morning of the 21st here. I won’t go to bed until evening. Long ago I decided I prefer staying Kowloon side — the peninsular Hong King instead of Hong Kong Island. Over successive trips, I’ve seen the sights. A few I revisit from time to time, but for the most part I like roaming the streets. A night market more interesting to me than Hong Kong Peak or the Golden Buddha on Lantau Island. Still, in this neighborhood — Yau Ma Tei — I like walking to Kowloon Park most mornings, about six blocks south. Watch all the ladies and gentlemen out doing tai chi or qigong exercises. When Penelope visits me, we go a few blocks north to the Tin Hau Temple, she being Buddhist. The hotel is on the corner of Ning Po and Shanghai streets, and the outside is a vivid red, almost vermilion, thus its name. Major streets are a few blocks away, Nathan Road to the west, Jordan Road to the South, and Ferry Street to the east. At Nathan and Jordan is the metro station I use. I’ll spend the day re-acclimating myself. It won’t be until tomorrow, a Saturday, that I’ll spend a day with my first visitors, Gong Jiexuan, her son and sister. Over the couple projects we worked together, I’ve met Jiexuan’s whole family, and entertained her and her husband, Jack Gao, at several meals. Yet normally, it is Jiexuan and her sister Xiangying that I see, the younger sister being unmarried and living with them. Penelope, my erstwhile client, I’ll see on Sunday. Monday and Tuesday, Christmas Eve day and Christmas, will be Yan Chilian and Zhou Maque. After that, nothing is planned, though I expect I will see Jiang Lienhua and, possibly, some of the others again over the remaining six full days of the trip. If not, then I’ll simply enjoy my wanderings and photo taking, maybe visit one or another museums and parks. Also, get a lot of pleasurable reading done. No student texts. No papers to grade. Just quiet time.

By the end of Saturday, I’m tired. Partly the day’s adventures with Jiexuan, Gao Jian, and Xiangying, starting at the science museum for the boy, Jian, who is six. Partly still adjusting to the time change, being on the other side of the world. It was a good day. Mostly talking and eating, some sight-seeing, like the museum, a little shopping. Catching up. Jiexuan is pregnant again, now that the China policy is relaxed and a second child permitted.

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Though the rules are more complex than that. I have met some Chinese who are part of large families, with five or six siblings. Whether rural or urban, which province, whether parents were only children, if a minority, whether able to afford fees and penalties, etc. Anyway, Jiexuan is quite happy. Plus Xiangying is now engaged, with marriage set for the lunar New Year. So Jiexuan and her husband, Jack, will have room for a second child with Xiangying moving out. I think sleep will come easily tonight as I’m getting used to the room’s double bed. First night’s in hotels are usually rough for me

Li Panpan — Penelope — is a tall ungainly woman. By that, I mean she is clumsy rather than ill-favored. Not that she’s a beauty, being somewhat plain, though when she smiles her face is cheering. I suspect she grew taller than her peers early and always felt awkward in her size. She is earnest, well-meaning, and self-deprecating, yet not annoyingly so. We have been friends since first meeting, she the client and me the consultant. Not sure why, except it was quickly apparent that we could rely and trust each other in our complementary realms. So I feel some guilt in using her on behalf of Mango. Juanita — Luo Jiaohua — is using her as well even though a friend. Is it because Penelope is so trusting? At lunch on Sunday, Penelope brings up Juanita, saying softly, “You know she believes in democracy.” “Oh? Is that a problem?” Penelope makes a face, “Can be.” She hesitates, then adds, “You know the message you sent, the one about the fortune cookie’s lucky numbers?” A Mango message, I nod, “Oh, yeah, a week or so ago.” She glances about the restaurant. No one close. Whispers, “Was that some kind of code?” If you focus on Penelope’s clumsiness — we’ve already cleaned up a spilled water glass — you can forget how rapid-fire smart she is. “What? No, I just thought it was amusing, all those 8’s.” Do I protest too much? She nods, acknowledging my response but not agreeing. Hesitates again, says, “I went back through messages sent to me over the past couple months. The ones I think you sent to Juanita, too. Some seem typical, but some seem to have layers of meaning. You know?” If Penelope has picked up on this, have the watchers? “Really? Like what?” “Besides the fortune cookie one, there was the one about room dimensions in your condo. And the one about shopping for gifts for your niece and nephew, the prices of the items. Another about the number of items on the café menu — St. Drogo of Sebourg, right?” She’s picked up on all the numeric codes. But then Penelope is a numbers person, like Madzie. “You know my wife is a mathematician, right? Maybe numbers were on my brain. Ex- wife. We’re divorced now.” Trying a change of subject. She accepts the evasion, though I doubt it fools her, “This month?” “Yes. A week ago this past Friday.” “Feeling bad about it?” Am I? “Yes and no. We haven’t been a couple for a long time. Maybe it was overdue. I just didn’t want to close that chapter of my life.”

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She reaches across the table, taking my hand, “You don’t like to let go of old friends.” Her smile, that warm encompassing smile that always cheers me. Momentarily our hands squeeze, then she draws back. “You’d tell me if I’m being foolish?” So she hasn’t dropped the topic. “Yes, I’d tell you.” But I don’t say she’s being foolish in her suspicions. After lunch, Penelope wants to go to the temple. I’m pretty sure she feels a need to pray. Once there, I could swear there’s a resemblance between the temple’s Buddha and St. Drogo, maybe it’s the long droopy ears. Gives me a sense of peace.

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Chapter 22: My Friend Yan Chilian

Monday, Christmas Eve day, I meet Yan Chilian and Zhou Maque at the Jordan metro station. They arrive in time for lunch, which we take at a restaurant on Nathan Road on our way to the Harbour City shopping mall. Time to become acquainted with Maque, who turns out to be more rounded and curvy than Chilian, though both are roughly the same height. I’m guessing she’s a year or two older than Chilian, yet still in her twenties. Attractive ladies. Although you can learn much about a person over an extended period exchanging messages, Maque and I haven’t been in touch all that long. First off, she is more talkative than Chilian. An aggressive personality. Chilian, in turn, is actually shy despite her profession. Part of why she is so endearing. Second, Maque is more self-centered. Her favorite word may be ‘I’, which I hear her say again: “I like glutinous rice balls better than dumplings. Let’s have some of those.” Of course, I am using my translation device, so Maque’s words may be unnaturally abrupt as she types quickly before passing it back to me. They have some English while I possess a smattering of Putonghua, but the pocket-sized device makes it easier to communicate if a little awkward. We order a shrimp dish (inevitable), greens highly peppered, noodles in broth with a variety of organic objects (inquiring is best not done — I don’t want to hear about pieces of stomach lining, etc.), and the glutinous rice balls (black sesame-filled, really a dessert). A light repast. Passing back the device. Maque is asking, “You celebrate Christmas every year with Chilian?” “Several years now.” “She your China tai-tai?” Meaning China wife, implication of temporary or sporadic intimate companion. “She is a friend.” “I be your friend, too. I like Festival Mall better than Harbour City.” And so it goes, with Chilian occasionally taking the device to interject, such as: “Will we have time to see a movie?” Chilian loves going to the movies.

After dropping off the shopping bags at my hotel room, to Maque’s giggling comment, “Bed narrow for three,” we go on to the movie theater. Maque wants to see Call Boy, supposedly erotic, a Japanese film. Chilian prefers Last Letter, also made by a Japanese, but with Chinese actors and language. Looks to be an odd love story fueled by written letters that create misunderstandings. I would like Roma, an acclaimed Mexican film. The compromise turns out to be Master Z, a martial arts film of the Ip Man saga. The movie is satisfyingly predictable, with ample athleticism and voyeuristic violence. Both ladies enjoy it. On the way back, Maque wants us to stop off for a drink, while Chilian wants to be sure I have an adequate supply of condoms. At the bar, I notice a fellow I’m sure I’ve seen earlier today. Maybe with a different companion, this time a woman. Wearing a jacket now, with the cool of evening (cool for Hong Kong anyway). Chilian glances where I’m looking, sees the man, too. She keys in the device, “Maybe he lives this neighborhood.”

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I nod, thinking I hope so otherwise we’re being followed.

I ease out of bed about two-thirty in the morning, after an hour of sleep. Feeling too warm, what with both women in the double bed. I use the bathroom. Yawning. Brush teeth, a nicety forgotten in the rush to bed earlier and all our antics. Step out to the room, dark save for a few small LED lights for the phone, computer and the like. My eyes adjust. I debate sleeping on the floor, recalling a spare pillow and thin blanket stored in the narrow closet. Not being use to the warmth of other bodies through the night. Which would be more comfortable? Floor or overheated bed? I find the blanket and pillow. As I lay them out, Chilian rises from the bed, her nude body touched by the red of the LED lights. Without words, she comes to me, pulling us gently down to the floor. A chaste kiss to my cheek, she snuggles in against me, turns her head to sleep on the shared pillow. A rush of tenderness for her. I rest.

Maque finds it hilarious that Chilian and I slept on the floor. She assures us she was very comfortable and slept soundly. After morning ablutions, we’re off to find breakfast. Though it is Christmas Day, the city is busy, perhaps not as busy as usual, but still quite hectic given the Western holiday. The day progresses. I am tired of Maque but mask it. I’d much prefer it if it were just Chilian and me. Parks and their gardens mostly today. Though at an afternoon break for tea, while Maque is off to the restroom, I ask Chilian, “How well do you know Zhou Maque?” Chilian shrugs, keys in and hands me the device: “One of a group of us. We take care of each other.” A necessity in her trade, I know. Needing mutual protection. Chilian takes back the device, keys in: “You don’t like her.” I key, “Self-centered.” She answers, “Maque okay. She just nervous near you. Talk too much to hide it.” Maybe, I think. Maque returns, speaking a volume of Guangdong wa to Chilian, way too fast to follow. The device is in motion, Maque asking if they can stay another night. Laughing says, “You get the bed. We sleep on floor.” Turns out that Maque would like to spend the evening in the Sai Ying Pan neighborhood, an up and coming area of lower rents with trendy spots and an arts scene. She’s tired of LKF nightlife, for tourists, referring to the bar-scene neighborhood of Lan Kwai Fong. I demur. Though if it were Chilian alone and she were asking, I’d say yes. Maque pouts momentarily. Then shrugs, giggles, “Is alright.” As we leave, Chilian points with a nod of her chin. I see the man from yesterday, too. Now wearing a hat and a different jacket. We’re in the Sheung Wan neighborhood, on Hong Kong Island, the part where the British founded their community. Far from Yau Ma Tei on the Kowloon side. Though we intended to go to the Sun Yat Sen Memorial Park, Chilian says, “We go Min Mo Miu.”

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It takes me a moment to understand that she means the temple. A scholars’ temple, but Chilian wants the Lit Sheng Jung portion, for all the gods, not just the scholar and war gods.

By early evening, we are again at the Jordan metro station, where I see the ladies off. An envelope to each, with the fatter to Chilian. Hoisting their shopping bags, they step onto the train. I can see Maque talking, and Chilian turns to me, her smile small and sad. I feel a pang as well.

A text that night from Nura and Najwa wishing me a Merry Christmas. I think they’re in D.C. visiting their father over the holidays. Christmas morning in the U.S. I guess I’d best call Madzie tonight. Oh, and Chloe, Skyler, and Joanna. Maybe send a text to Sam, as well. Harper and her family, too.

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Chapter 23: Come With Us

On my own Wednesday through Friday, which was fine. I am, in many ways, a solitary person. A lot of walking. Some forays into the hinterland by train, getting off, exploring, photography, exchanging a few words to one or another person, eating meals alone, reading, even some sketching. Quiet days without responsibilities. No watchers so far as I could discern, and I looked for them. For that matter, no Mango texts this trip. I was ready for company on Saturday, and glad to see Jiang Lienhua. It had been uncertain whether she could get away to Hong Kong. To make it possible, she brought her youngest, the girl, Liu Jingqi. Jingqi is five now, a sweetheart like her mom. Most of the day is spent at the Hong Kong Disneyland. The two of them bundled up as if they expect it to snow. The weather is below 60 by a few degrees. Fine in the sun, less so when hidden by clouds. Despite this we have fun, Jingqi enjoying the rides. I am conscious that others take us for a couple with our young daughter. I think Lienhua likes that, too. Heading back to Kowloon, Jingqi insists she is too old for naps now, yet she falls asleep on the ride anyway. A little cranky after the ride. The little girl perks up when we enter La Luz, a coffee bar and patisserie in my hotel’s neighborhood. Lienhua would have preferred Café Aout but it was closed over the holidays. Lienhua loves their crepes. Still, La Luz’ fine pastries more than make up for the absence of crepes. The owner serves Australian coffee, having lived in Brisbane for years. I do a flat white with a small chocolate soufflé. Jingqi prefers cookies with hot cider, while Lienhua has a napoleon with her hot chocolate. “So you are no longer married, Auberon,” says Lienhua, smiling. I had mentioned this earlier but thought the fact had gotten lost in a need for Jingqi to use the restroom at Disneyland. Apparently it registered with Lienhua. “Yes,” holding up my hands without a ring. “Your friends here lining up to be your tai-tai?” she laughs. “Must be a short line,” I respond, looking about me. “My sister’s not married. You could do worse. But need to live in Hong Kong, not the U.S.” I’ve met her sister, a kindergarten school teacher without any English. Nice enough, but not Lienhua. “If I lived in Hong Kong, your sister is not who I’d consider.” It takes her moment to digest that remark. A small smile, “I am married still.” “Yes, with your two children. Very married.” We look at each other, knowing what each is thinking. She looks away at Jingqi, touching the girl’s head, saying to her, “Soon we need to go home. See your Pa and De.” She repeats the words in Putonghua. Walking to the Jordan metro station, I hold Jingqi’s left hand while Lienhua holds her right. The girl chattering to her mom. At the station, Lienhua says to Jingqi, “Say goodbye to uncle. See him next year.”

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Sunday I’m on my own again, feeling close to ready to fly home. A tad cooler today. Given how poorly heated are these tropical buildings, you feel the cool more than at home. So much of the day is spent at one or another coffee shop reading, sketching, working on my lap top. I start writing an account of this trip with no intent of sharing it. Mostly for my own amusement. In the evening I get a call from Nura. They are still in D.C. but will return to Lake Shore on Wednesday. She asks about my trip, and I briefly describe yesterday’s activities, the time spent earlier with Penelope, and the day with the Gong sisters. I don’t mention Yan Chilian. Then Nura passes the phone to Najwa. We greet each other, I ask how she’s doing. A slight groan, “Want to be back in Lake Shore.” “Oh?” “Father. You know, treats me like a child.” A pause, “Treats Nura so, too.” “I understand.” “You are enjoying Hong Kong? Your friends there?” “Yes, but I think I’m ready to be home, too. I fly back on the First.” “Yes, I know. Look forward to St. Drogo, right?” she laughs. “Absolutely. And to see you and Nura and the others, as well.” A moment of silence, then, “Plan for supper upstairs with us on Wednesday.” “Okay. That would be good.” Then our goodbyes. Off the phone, I realize I truly am looking forward to seeing them and being back in Lake Shore. In the past, I’d always been reluctant to leave Hong Kong but not this time.

Monday, the 31st, I am up early enough. Not sure how I’ll spend the day or if I’ll bother with the New Year’s Eve celebrations tonight. Decide to walk to Kowloon Park to watch the tai chi and qigong crowd of mostly elderly Chinese. Strolling the park, I pause to watch a pair of aged fellows, bundled up again the chill, using long broom-like brushes to write classical poetry with water on the dusty walkway. Characters mostly fade away as they dry, but some stay faintly apparent. Ghosts of the poems. These are the full characters of Hong Kong rather than the simplified mainland forms. Others pause as well to watch and comment. I realize someone is standing close to me. I turn and am startled to see Yan Chilian. She shakes her head before I speak. Gestures unobtrusively to follow her. I find her at a park bench set back from the path and screened on one side by bushes. Her face is serious as a sit beside her. She holds out her hand, and I realize she wants the translation device. As soon as I hand it to her, she starts keying furiously. When she hands it back, I touch translate and watch the conversion: “Maque arrested. Police talk with me. Want to know about texts. About you. About all I know of her friends and of your friends.” Time for parrot, parrot, I think. “Are you alright?” Taking the device, she keys again: “Think so. Release me at four this morning.” Was she followed here, I wonder. Who else is in danger? Jiang Lienhua? Penelope? She keys: “Afraid to message you. Come instead.”

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It does not take much to be detained. I suppose I’m in danger here in Hong Kong. Look at the Canadians detained by China as tit-for-tat in the Canadian arrest of Ms. Meng, the Huawei executive. “Thank you for the warning, Chilian. I’m concerned for Zhou Maque, but more concerned for you.” “I think because her regular friend is indiscrete.” “Oh?” “Professor of computer science, advises government projects. Tells Maque things he shouldn’t.” So I was wrong, Maque does hear secrets during pillow talk. Handing the device to me, I see the next message: “She good at oral sex. Professor likes.” More than I need to know, I think, not wanting the image in my mind. Still, the blunt no-nonsense attitude about sex is part of what I appreciate in Chilian. She yawns hugely, covers her mouth with her hand. Pi fa, she says. Weary, if I remember right. I key in: “No sleep last night?” Keys back: “Rest in your bed? Just sleep.” “Okay,” I say. We go to the hotel.

A quiet day. As Chilian sleeps, I read. Probably not the wisest thing, having her here after Maque’s arrest. If they’re following or tracking Chilian, then likely they already know she came to me. I have sent off messages that repeat parrot to more than five of my correspondents so Pritchard and Nierman or their cohorts should be alerted to the conduit being blown. Yet, for all that, it feels good to glance over and see Chilian sleeping soundly, mouth slightly agape. Feels domestic in a way. The protective tenderness she evokes in me. Later, she rises, showers, then comes to me to interrupt my reading. Later still we shower together. We go out for a meal at Shang Hai Restaurant in the same building. After that, I walk her to Jordan station. Seeing her off there is no envelope for her; she didn’t want that for our time together today. I believe she returns to Shenzhen expecting to be arrested herself. A farewell between us.

Tuesday up early, packed, checked out, and heading for the station to go on to the airport. Glad to be going home. Approaching the station, I recognize the man ahead from Christmas Day. With him are two other men. Glancing about, I see two more coming up behind me. I feel a stab of fear. Tell myself to deny, to not implicate any others. I must protect Jiang Lienhua, Penelope, and Yan Chilian — the Gong sisters, as well, and all my other innocent China correspondents. That resolve strengthens me, as the man says, “Dr. Auberon Kent, come with us, please.” I realize I won’t be seeing Chloe and Skyler as planned.

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Part Four: Foreign National

Chapter 24: Holding My Breath

Nineteen days, though I lost count at the time. No outside view, lights on at all times, cold, little food, questioned two to four times a day. Not much sleep. I followed the dictum of President Trump: deny and lie, regardless of any evidence. Never thought he’d be an example I’d follow. If it’d been for our government, I know I would have cracked. But it was for my friends, to protect them. Even when the agents said they’d rounded up all my correspondents in China. Were interrogating each. That each had accused me. That was their lie. Overstating the case, since most of my correspondents were innocent of any involvement. Would have been bewildered. Any accusation, if they existed, forced on them rather than real. I knew the agents were lying. Then I was released.

My arrest had been witnessed and a video posted on YouTube, whether by a citizen of Hong Kong or a friendly agency person, I don’t know. If a citizen, then I salute his or her bravery. Even so, it barely caused a ripple. Still, it meant my disappearance was known. What negotiations or pressures were brought to bear on my behalf, I don’t know. If a deal was struck, I’m unaware of it. Perhaps the Chinese authorities tired of my denials. Perhaps they got what they wanted without me realizing. Did they roll up all the Mango contacts? Did they decide to observe them, track them, rather than incarcerate them? I don’t know.

Released to a U.S. consulate fellow. Slept soon after for better than twelve hours, and still felt fatigue dragging at me. Lost thirty-four pounds, of which fifteen I could afford to lose.

Apparently I was in the news twice. For less than a day some three days after being arrested, when the news media caught up with the event. And for a few hours after my safe release. Maybe I’m not newsworthy considering other global events. Maybe news about me was largely suppressed. Part of the deal? Again, I don’t know. Whatever, I’m grateful for not being a news item.

My absence was not explained to LWC, the Saints, Whitaker, or my students. I’m out of a job. Only Nura, Najwa, Alexis, and Rachel raised a fuss. And Mr. al Razi at his daughters’ request. In fact, the question being raised by a representative of the UAE may have hastened official efforts on my behalf. If so, I owe him and the ladies a debt.

Nor was my absence explained to Joanna, Chloe, and Skyler. I called them on the 20th to let them know what had happened. Joanna seemed to accept it, but coolly. Madzie was far

Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell more emotional. Yet there again, with the divorce, there is this undefinable distance between us that wasn’t there even in the years of separation. Maybe because I used to hope.

So now, Wednesday the 23rd of January, I am finally sitting in St. Drogo sipping a mug of mocha. A large mocha, happily prepared and served by Sam, welcoming me back. She knows sketchily of my ordeal, as do some others now. Dean Selfridge, as an example, is working to have me re-instated at LWC. All my friends here assume I was a totally innocent party. A few aren’t so sure. I’m told the Provost, John Abramson, has his doubts about me, but he may always have had his doubts. I do feel chastened, foolish, for ever having participated in Mango. I am frightened for my friends in China, and have not yet tried to reach out to them. I don’t want to endanger them further. Something which bothers me is the lack of any word from Pritchard or Nierman or anyone else tied to Mango. Well, I suppose that’s not actually true. The stipend was paid for January.

I am re-arranging my flights to and from Colorado. A very belated Christmas celebration with Chloe and Skyler. Only a weekend, as they’re back in school. Not sure I can afford the flights, but they’re family so I will do it. Sip my mocha. Not really certain I want to return to teaching. Feeling a lassitude I can’t explain. Life seems flat. I should be grateful to be here. I am, really. Yet, it seems … unimportant. Sam comes over, takes a chair to sit with me. “You okay, Dr. Kent?” Try to smile, “Guess I’m still weary.” She nods. Looks away, at St. Drogo’s face on the wall, says, “Ryan asked me to marry him.” “Good, right?” Nods again, then smiles, “Yes. It is. Except I think it means giving up the café.” “He’s worth it, don’t you think?” “Yes,” said with more enthusiasm, a broader smile and she laughs. “He says I can buy a café in Minneapolis or St. Paul.” “So you’ll sell St. Drogo.” “Peter Rainey would buy it.” “Oh.” I’m sure she hears the disappointment in my voice. “I’d be able to pay back your $10,000.” There’s that. I suspect I’m going to need it. “Good. For now I’m out of a job, unless I can get re-instated at Lincoln Willard.” She grimaces, “That’s unfair. You were imprisoned without cause.” I don’t answer that. She goes on, happiness in her voice, “Ryan wants a May wedding. Then we move in June. My sister will be maid-of-honor for me. Emmanuelle and Emma Kim will be my bridesmaids. You’ll come, right?” “If that’s an invitation, then certainly.” She pats my hand, “It will work out.”

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Optimism. I used to have that.

Supper tonight is upstairs with Nura, Najwa, Alexis and Rachel. Rachel starting to show at three months along, still not having told her family. She’s been accepted at five of the ten schools she applied to for the fall as a transfer student. Needs to decide which of the five to attend: DePauw, Earlham, Grinnell, Kenyon, or Lewis & Clark. Four schools have sent apologetic rejections and one school has yet to be heard from: Oberlin. So that’s what we’ve been discussing, which school would be best. Nura says, “Doesn’t it depend on which courses and grades are accepted for transfer?” “Mostly, and the money,” agrees Rachel. Musingly, Alexis says, “Baby will be born in July.” Firmly, Rachel answers, “I will give it up for adoption. My parents need never know. I just can’t see them after April until August.” That seems a forlorn hope to me. It’s Najwa who says gently, “Is that practical?” Sharply, Rachel replies, “Has to be. You don’t know my dad. He’d kill Michael Stroup.” We are silent at that assertion, looking to each other, avoiding Rachel’s eyes. To change the subject, Rachel says, “Ryan Corwin is marrying Samantha in May, you know. Sam at St. Drogo that is.” Alexis nods, “She said next month they’ll get formal invites out. We’re suppose to save the date, Sunday, May 19, the day after LWC commencement.” “Is it unusual to marry on a Sunday?” asks Nura. “If it’s in a church, I think,” answers Alexia. “Though they may need to move the date forward, as early as next month.” “Is she pregnant?” asks Rachel. Alexis shakes her head, “No, I don’t think so. Something to do with Ryan’s job. They get better housing if they’re married but they need to register for it in February. Sam’s not sure being engaged and marrying in May will count.” “What about St. Drogo?” asks Nura. “Selling it to the Rainey couple. They want the site for a restaurant,” says Alexis. Consternation as Nura asks, “We lose St. Drogo?” “I guess so. That’s the plan, I’m pretty sure.” Alexis turns to me, “Is that right?” “It’s what Sam told me, too. A shame,” I say. “Selling St. Drogo, I mean.” That leads to an early sorrowing for the fate of St. Drogo among the ladies. And an enumeration of coffee shop alternatives, with both Starbucks and Peet’s voted down, though the other reasonable local café is on the south side of the downtown district, further away from the campus. I’m sort of fading out of the discussion, fatigue again, though the wine at supper contributes I’m sure. Neither Nura nor Rachel drinking any. Whether out of religious scruple or simply not liking alcohol for Nura, I’m not sure. For the baby’s sake was Rachel’s reason. A nice blended red. Not great, but nice enough for a spicy meal. Najwa thinks I need fattening up since Hong Kong. As Alexis said, get me back to fighting strength. Interrupting their chatter, I say, “I think I’ll call it a night, Ladies. Still a little tired.” “This weekend you fly to Denver. Will you be strong enough?” Najwa asks.

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“I’ll be alright. If you want, you can come with me. Watch over me,” I said the last jokingly. Nodding, Najwa says, “Okay, I come.” Startling the girls as well as me, though I see she is serious. I’m uncertain how to respond. Surprising myself, I like the idea. A companion for the trip. Since Hong Kong, I’m a little leery of traveling alone. “Good. We can make plans tomorrow.” I yawn, “Sorry. I need my rest.”

Downstairs, ready for bed, my phone buzzes. A weixin message. The first since the trip. I see that it’s Jiang Lienhua, a question, “You okay?” Relief to hear from her. Though is it really her or a government agent impersonating her? I answer, “Like the time we climbed the mountain.” Reasoning that an agent might not know the reference. A smile emoticon back, and a phrase that translates, “Euphoric but with sore feet and legs.” So it is Lienhua. Now I am glad, “And you? Okay as well?” “Yes, all is okay now.” A blow out a breath, not realizing I’d been holding it. “Good. I’ve been worried.” A thumbs up emoticon. Then, “Late for you. We talk tomorrow.” “Okay.” Climbing into bed, I decide I’ll reach out to Penelope and Yan Chilian in the morning. Oh, and I should let Joanna know that two of us are coming to Colorado, though that can wait until Najwa and I make plans.

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Chapter 25: What to Do?

“I thought I’d find you here,” says Carolyn Selfridge, joining me at my table in St. Drogo. I look up from my laptop where I’m outlining a book I’m thinking of writing. My version of organization design planning. Not a happy look on Dean Selfridge’s face. “No go at Lincoln Willard?” I guess. A look of annoyance as she says, “Professor Munsen opposes.” I nod, not surprised. She goes on, “Joanie continues with Society and Business Culture. Dr. Hamlin with Dynamics of Cultural Interaction. Harper took on Entrepreneurship with Munsen’s favorite TA, Felicity Crowell, assisting. He doesn’t want to upset the tenor of the classes by re-inserting you.” She makes a wry face, “His phrase.” “Ed Placek say anything?” “Oh, Ed is sort of going to seed. My fault I suppose,” she makes a feeble gesture. “Any luck with the Saints?” “I was down to one class there. Now that’s been re-assigned, too.” “I’m sorry, Auberon. I was able to wrangle a sum as severance if you don’t dispute the contract termination.” “No point in kicking up a fuss. Won’t help me looking for something else.” I grimace, “My CV is in order.” Carolyn leans forward, asks softly, “Were you a spy, Auberon?” With the Mango NDA in mind, and not knowing what repercussions there could be if I breached it, I simply sigh, “Hardly.” Sitting back, she asks, “So what will you do until next fall?” The assumption that I’ll have new teaching positions by then. “I may need to work here.” I hold up my empty mocha cup, “Get the employee discount for my addiction.” She smiles, “I’m glad your good humor perseveres.” I’m not actually joking, but say, “Decided to write a book on OD planning. You know, purpose first, analysis, talent focus, controllables, sequencing, accountabilities and the building blocks of incremental change, structuring, normatives and commitment, finally measures and outcomes.” She nods, not interested in details, not her subject area. “A book would be good. I need to get back. Again, I’m sorry, Auberon.” She leafs through her briefcase, “Here are papers for you to sign. The severance amount, and so on. You can read it, sign, and return to me. Say by Friday?” This being Tuesday the 29th.

To be truthful, I’m not much interested in the book myself. It just seems like the kind of thing I should do if I plan to stay in academia. An alternative would be to go back into consulting, though probably not for assignments in China what with the U.S. warning travelers against the dangers of being detained there. Up to 16 Canadians already; A book would be a useful credential for consulting, too.

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Except I think I’m burnt out for now on organization design. So what else do I do at age 44? My one real commitment is to Mr. al Razi and his daughters. Well, to Nura. Watching over her for the next two years of school. That and on Rudiger’s behalf to Chloe and Skyler despite this past weekend’s acrimony. Joanna proving horrified that I would bring a Muslim woman into her home. Who knew Joanna was so small-minded? I guess her rural upbringing has deep roots. Or maybe because she never finished college? Made me furious. Najwa was far more understanding of Joanna than me. On impulse, I bring up my LinkedIn account. Maybe I need to bring my profile up to date, too. Start seriously searching for another job. Something here or in the city. I can’t be moving now, so no jobs outside the greater city area. I wouldn’t mind working for a non-profit; something where I can do some good.

While I’m searching various job sites, Ryan goes past to look out the front windows. As he turns back, he says to me, “Looks like they’re changing exhibits at the Arts Center.” “Yes, a new exhibit is scheduled to open on Friday.” He nods, “The Guilfoyle exhibit, right? His work and some of his students.” Puts me in mind of Jules, but I dismiss the thought. “Sam seems a little down at the mouth today.” A grimace across Ryan’s face. He pulls out the chair opposite me and sits, saying softly, “Employee issues. Bobby quit suddenly, on the morning shift. Fleming can’t cover it because of his other job, so Emma will but she’s not happy about it. Sam’s looking for a replacement.” “You want to teach me to be a barista? I’m between jobs.” “You, Dr. Kent?” “Until Sam finds someone else.” Not wanting to commit too deeply, not being sure I can master being a barista. Then there’s the problem of being on your feet for hours. As I think about it, I’m increasingly doubtful. Ryan doesn’t look any more certain than me. Still, he says, “I’ll talk with Sam. It’s just minimum wage, you know?” “About the same as teaching.“ I chuckle, “If you count the hours of course preparation, reviewing papers, grading, student counseling, and administrative trivia of the school, as well as class time.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said it since Ryan will be teaching come next semester. Ryan gets up, then leans forward and says even more quietly, “Also, it’s no go with the Raineys. They’ve separated, maybe a divorce.” “Oh? No buyer for St. Drogo.” He sighs, nods, “A problem.”

When I get home, I notice that the Mango phone, which I’d left on the cabinet counter, has moved against the lip of the stove. For just a second I wonder if someone’s been in the condo, then decide its shifted position was caused by vibrating. I pick it up, two messages and a text. The first I’ve heard anything from them since going to Hong Kong. Makes me uneasy. Both messages are from Joyce Nierman, wanting me to call her. I guess she’s my handler. The text is the same.

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Reluctantly, I call. Wait for her to pick up, thinking I want to be free of this. “Dr. Kent, we have avoided contact while we assessed the fallout from your detention and release.” No hello, no welcome home, no pleasantries at all, I note. “So?” “We suspect they left your network intact, with the possible exception of Zhou Maque.” “What’s happened to her?” The image of Maque laughing at Chilian and me for sleeping on the floor popping into mind. “Re-education camp, ostensibly for repeated violation of prostitution laws.” She’s alive, then, I think with some relief. “But not Yan Chilian.” “No, not your girlfriend,” a hint of amusement. “We believe we should resume messaging.” “I’m not willing. I want out of this. I will not endanger my friends further.” “Yes, we thought you’d say as much but we doubt it’s wise.” That gives me pause, uncertain what she means. Is she threatening? Nierman goes on, “We believe your network is being left alone in anticipation of additional messages. Otherwise, likely they would have arrested most of your contacts, our people and yours. We believe they will use the network to provide disinformation.” I don’t know what to say to that. “That, in turn, enables us to provide them with disinformation,” she says dryly. I understand the point she’s making but it still seems off the mark to me. “Wouldn’t they simply arrest them all at some point in the future?” No answer for a moment, then, “Possibly.” An intake of breath, “You have already resumed messaging your friends there. If you no longer message Sheng Jun, Luo Jiaohua, Miao Tianxin, even Zhou Maque, you are pinpointing them as fraudulent, as agents. If you message them as well, then they are indistinguishable from your friends and acquaintances.” “Some of my acquaintances have dropped off over time. Our contact too peripheral to their lives, like Wang Xianghua, Li Lingyun, and Cassandra. Couldn’t that be true of your agents?” “You could wean them over time, starting with Zhou Maque, but not all at once.” I don’t like it but I see the logic of what’s she is saying. “Alright.” “Contacts outside of China can continue as well, like Radwa al Malik.” I nod, though she can’t see it. “Okay, for a time, but I will drop them over the next 12 months. I don’t want this to continue.” “We hear you, Dr. Kent. It won’t continue indefinitely.” She clicks off. I stand there holding the Mango mobile, feeling powerless, frustrated. Why ever did I agree to being a conduit? If the Chinese government is feeding disinformation, then they already know who are the agents, right? I feel like Bre’r Rabbit in the fable of the Tar Baby. With the disintegration of relations between China and the U.S. could my contact with friends there be damaging to them regardless of Mango? Didn’t China initiate their social measures, scoring each citizen’s level of acceptability? What to do?

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Chapter 26: Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day marking two weeks as a St. Drogo barista. I think I’ve got the hang of it now. Sam, Ryan, and Emma being patient with me, teaching an old dog new tricks. The first day I was incredibly nervous. That was back on the 31st. I think it had mostly to do with students and other customers seeing me serving them rather than being the ‘respected’ professor in front of the class. I was over that issue within two days. Too busy to think about it on the morning shift. Maybe too tired, too, not being used to getting up at four-thirty. Then it was the intricacies of the dozens of kinds of drinks, not to mention foodstuffs. Worst was keeping track of all the orders. Actually, I’m glad Sam did away with the artist cards. Most customers are at least semi- regular, so it’s better to get their names. Easier to remember their preferences. What is amazing to me is that once off duty, I’m really off. No work to take home, no papers to grade, no lessons to develop, no students to advise, and no departmental reports. Though I work full-time, it’s actually fewer hours. Sam can’t afford the $15 minimum that many are agitating for, yet she does match the city even though we’re in a suburban county, so I will be earning $12 an hour once I complete 90 days. Until then, she has me at $9.50, which is still above what she’s required to pay. There are tips shared out, too, but I understand they’re meager compared to tips in a full-service restaurant that serves alcohol. Nonetheless, it adds about a buck an hour. Mornings there’s three of us working. Weekdays its Emma, Destiny, and me. I really didn’t know Destiny before — a short, plump, and mostly cheerful Black woman, whom I guess is about thirty. Serious about coffee. A little rocky at first, me fitting in, but now we’re a team. Of course, Sam or Ryan often come-in on mornings, too. Thursdays and Fridays particularly since those are the busiest mornings. So much to learn, like espresso machine maintenance. Watched Ryan change out a gasket yesterday to avoid leaking. It feels good to be learning. At the moment, though, I’m off duty, even if still at the shop. Reading a history of the early Tang dynasty in China while drinking a mocha, my second of the day. Emma is already gone, hurrying to have a late lunch with Detective Zalewski. Destiny’s gone home, as well. Fleming and Sam are manning the café. A buzz from the Mango phone. A text for Tina — Miao Tianxin, the lady in Beijing. As this is my first message for her since early December, I send off a query on how’s she’s doing. Include a brief summary of some recent activities of mine that enfolds the text Mango wants sent, a count of days. I feel some trepidation doing this, though it’s muted with Tina, someone I’ve never met. Sam comes by, bussing tables. “Who’s your Valentine sweetheart, Dr. Kent?” “I guess you’re out of bounds, what with Ryan.” She laughs, “Emma’s out, too. You could’ve tried Destiny.” “I suspect Destiny is taken as well.” “Well, you’ve got your four upstairs ladies.”

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I shake my head, “I’m pretty sure Alexis has her eye on a classmate, Roy Glissom.” But I’m not sure Sam hears me, as she goes to pick up Mrs. Seaver’s cup and saucer, exchanging greetings with that lady. Maybe I should get several Valentine cards. I think of Madzie, but that’s past. For years I’ve considered Harper but never acted on it, not being sure how she’d take it. There’s Chloe and Skyler, though it’s too late to send something off to them. I could do an e-card for them. What would Najwa or Nura think of a card? Not their tradition. Well, if I do a joint card for all four ladies no one will feel left out or feel I’m being suggestive. A walk to the bookstore would do me good anyway.

Wow, cards have gotten expensive. Or is it my low earnings that make it seem so? Maybe e-cards for everyone. I always buy cards without a message inside. Blank cards as they call them. I prefer to do my own messaging instead of the oversweet or slightly lewd sentiments card companies write, the latter if one is trying for humor. What’s it like being a greeting card writer for Hallmark or one of the other companies? Will that be another occupation disappearing to automation? AI sentiments, ‘you make my electrons flutter’. Good I’m getting just one card. I find one I like that’s not too much money. A stylized multi-color flower on the front, with a short purple ribbon tied through a hole in the card. Not sure why the ribbon, but it brightens what might be ordinary. Too bad the ribbon’s not pink for Valentine’s Day. The bookstore cashier and I are acquainted after years of coming here. “How are you, Perry?” “Good, Auberon. You know you will need to renew your membership come March 1.” Then he adds, tapping the card, “For your Valentine? Lucky lady.” It’s $15 to renew, getting a 10% discount, which basically covers the sales tax. Worth it even in my straitened circumstances. “I’ll renew at the month end. Four ladies, actually, my neighbors.” “That’s $2.95.” Perry goes on to say, “I doubt my wife would want three others to be my Valentine.” “Pros and cons to married life.” “And to unmarried life,” he counters.

After greeting Jerome, the doorman on duty at the desk, I head up the stairs rather than using the elevator. Composing my card as I climb the flights of steps to my apartment. Maybe a general greeting then a line to each of the four and a general conclusion. Alexis, your good humor lights the heart. Rachel and Bub, your health and happiness delights the eye. Nura, your inner and outer beauty gladdens us all. Najwa, your kindness and care reminds us of the goodness of life. Or some lines like that, anyway. Hmm, will Rachel be bothered by the reference to Bub? The name Alexis bestowed upon Rachel’s swelling form, the baby within. While I’m composing the actual sentiments at my desk, a knock on the door. One of the ladies, I’m guessing Najwa as I go to the door. She often comes down, usually with an invitation to supper. Scarf hastily donned, loose flowing dress worn at home, bare feet, which somehow

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Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell turns me on, though I try to suppress the feeling not wanting to embarrass either of us. Only it’s not Najwa at the door, the knocking more insistent. “Rachel, what’s the matter?” A look of near panic on the girl’s face. “They’ve released Michael Stroup early.” “How do you know?” I ask thoughtlessly. “I saw him. He was on campus. Walking with Geoffrey Burke.” Burke being the other one with Stroup that Nura believes beat her. “Come in, relax. You’re safe here.” I step aside. Soon she’s sitting nervously on the edge of the daybed. “What about Bub? Will Michael have a claim on my baby?” “Does he even know?” Though the ladies and I know, and some others may have guessed, it’s not too obvious yet given the cold weather clothing. “He’s bound to know sometime.” “If so, will he even care? I doubt a young man like him wants the responsibility of a baby.” ”You don’t know Michael like I do. Anything he thinks is his, he wants. Me. Bub. Anything.” The panic is back as she says this. “We may be able to get a restraining order on him. We can contact a lawyer,” I answer, though I’m pretty sure he would need to do something overt first. “Could you speak to LWC, see if I can complete this semester from home? Not go to school.” “We can go together to talk with your professors and to the dean.” She nods, looks away. “I can’t go to my real home, not with Bub. My family … “ she leaves it unsaid. Looks at me, “If I were married it’d be okay.” She chuckles uneasily, “Do you want to marry me, Dr. Kent?” Then she waves a hand away, “Sorry, just joking. We all know you love Najwa.” What? I dither, “I … don’t know. Your parents wouldn’t want you married to a guy twenty some years older. And I like Najwa, but … “ She sighs, “It’s okay. Grasping at straws, you know. I’d just rather you were the father than Michael. A lot of men rather than Michael.” “Rachel, you’ll get through this. It will be okay. We can talk to the college. Make arrangements. Maybe it’s time you faced your parents, let them know all that’s happened. We would be with you if you want.” “You and Najwa? Just like Mr. al Razi has you protecting Nura?” I nod, though feeling uncertainty. “If he were a boy of color shooting off a gun in St. Drogo, he’d still be in prison. Likely for years,” she says bitterly. I don’t doubt it, but she’s evading the question of her family. “Spring break is a month away. Your parents will be expecting you home, right?” She nods, reluctantly. “Bub will be bigger then,” I point out, unnecessarily. “Your family is in Indianapolis, right?” “Williams Creek, part of Indianapolis when it expanded into the whole county,” she answers.

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“We could leave after work tomorrow. Be there in late evening.” A spark of panic again, “Let me think about it. Not this weekend.” “Okay, but soon, Rachel.” She sighs. Then more brightly says, “Najwa wants you to come up for supper.”

Talk at supper is dominated by the reappearance of Stroup. Nura says fiercely, “This is justice in America?” I have no ready answer given the several egregious cases over the past twelve months of judges being lenient with white college-educated male rapists. Alexis agrees, “He shouldn’t be walking the streets. We all know he attacked Nura, too.” “But not charged with that crime, nor with Rachel’s rape,” points out Najwa. “Is bribery? Of the judge?” asks Nura. “Probably not,” I say. “Just another judge of the same social class as Stroup. Sympathetic, thinking the boy’s future shouldn’t be blighted for a moment of foolishness.” Softly, Rachel asks, “Do you think it will make the news? His release?” “Possibly,” I say. “Depends on what else is in the news.” “Last time, the news was about you, Dr. Kent, as much as Michael,” says Alexis. “Hitting him with your computer bag.” “He is a violent man,” asserts Najwa. “Not a moment of foolishness, something he planned. He won’t change his ways.” On that we all agree gloomily.

After supper, while Najwa washes dishes and I dry — Najwa not liking to use the dishwasher, feeling that it wastes water — Rachel comes to us. “Alright, Dr. Kent, we can go see my parents this weekend.” I quickly ask Najwa if she will come with us on the trip to Indianapolis. Telling her we will introduce Bub. Najwa says, “If Nura comes, too. I don’t want her alone here since Michael Stroup is loose.”

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Chapter 27: Broad Ripple

We arrive at the Airbnb in the Broad Ripple section of Indianapolis at nine in the evening on Friday, having left Lake Shore just before 4 in the afternoon and having stopped for supper on the way. While I was off work by 2, Nura and Rachel didn’t finish classes until after 3. Williams Creek, where Rachel’s family lives is about ten minutes north of Broad Ripple. When Rachel had called her mom, she’d said she’ be there on Saturday noontime. Najwa is a little leery of meeting the Kucera family after our experience with Joanna in Colorado. On the other hand, I’m thinking it’s better if a woman is with Rachel rather than a man or, at least, a man alone. Rachel is now having her doubts about the whole venture. If it were up to her, tomorrow we’d drive back to Illinois. That is until Nura reminds Rachel of Michael Stroup back in Lake Shore. We talked it out on the drive down, several times. Ad nauseam in my view. Yet I understand that Rachel is truly frightened of her father’s reaction to her rape and pregnancy. Not for herself, but for what action he might take in the fury and hurt on behalf of his daughter.

We settle in for the night. Najwa and Nura sharing one bedroom; Rachel in the other; and me on the couch. The Airbnb is a detached made-over garage, while the owner is in the main house. The place is tucked in a corner of Broad Ripple between the canal and the White River, a quite pleasant neighborhood. A restless night for me, the couch not being all that comfortable. Just a little short unless I sleep diagonally, but with a lump, maybe a spring, making the diagonal bothersome. I end up putting cushions on the floor, which has wall-to-wall carpeting, sleeping there. Easier than the night in Hong Kong with Yan Chilian. I’m awakened about 1:30. Someone in the kitchenette. Rachel I realize. Hear the water running and her drinking. Then she goes back to her bedroom. Doze, maybe falling asleep. Someone up and using the bathroom. About 2:30. Not sure which of the ladies. Must have fallen asleep again, when I’m awakened by Najwa whispering, “Why are you on the floor?” I am groggy in the dark room, making out her form as she kneels beside me. “What are you doing up?” I manage. Realizing then that she’s only in T-shirt and underpants. That stirs me. “Couldn’t sleep.” The air is cool this February night despite being indoors, so I say, “Come here.” Offering her a portion of the comforter. She complies, snuggling in. No more than inches apart. She says, “We sleep,” and promptly closes her eyes. I am bemused, unable to decide what this portends, her lying beside me. Wanting her. Not wanting to take advantage. Tired, anyway. We sleep. Just before five, I waken again. Najwa is tight against me, her warm body cupping mine. I turn toward her. Her eyes open, she smiles, and we kiss. Then we make love, not frantic, not languid, quite satisfying us both. I swear she purrs afterwards. Then she’s up. “What?” I ask.

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Puts a finger to her lips, points to the bedroom where Nura sleeps. “I go,” she whispers. Leans down and kisses me again.

The Kuceras have met Nura before in Lake Shore, she being their daughter’s roommate, so they readily welcome Najwa, too. They are clearly surprised that I am with the ladies, a professor. And they can tell that whatever brought their daughter home is serious. Probably yesterday’s call from Rachel forewarned them. Robert Kucera is in his mid-fifties I judge. From Rachel I know he’s a real estate developer and general contractor. Her older brothers are in the family business, too. Her mother, Daphne, is a few years younger than her husband. Both are fit and reasonably handsome. Though the looks of concern on their faces as they also seek to be polite to their guests cause lines of anxiety to show. We are in the living room of the large house. “Please, sit,” says Mrs. Kucera. As we do so, Mr. Kucera asks, “Are you in some kind of trouble at school, Rachel?” “Not with school, Daddy.” “What else then?” he asks sharply, a glare directed at me. “I’m pregnant,” Rachel blurts. “Oh, no,” gasps Mrs. Kucera. Bob Kucera is on his feet advancing toward me, “Dr. Kent is responsible?” “No, no,” exclaims Rachel. “He’s here to help. Please, let me explain.” Partially mollified, Kucera hesitates, while Mrs. Kurcera is up and then seated by Rachel, taking her hand. Slowly Rachel says, “Do you remember that I was dating Michael Stroup back at the beginning of the school year?” Shaking his head no, Kucera sits back down. Rachel shrugs, “Anyway, he was very possessive. I tried to break it off. He … “ Mrs. Kucera interrupts, “He’s the boy who shot the gun in the café.” “Yes,” agrees Rachel. Mrs. Kucera turns to me, “You stopped him, right, Dr. Kent?” I nod. “Please, mommy, let me say it,” pleads Rachel. But Bob Kucera has already guessed, “This Stroup raped you?” “Yes,” almost a whisper from Rachel. “And later he beat Nura. He and another man. She was in the hospital.” I think that’s said by Rachel to avert her father’s attention from the fact of rape. Mrs. Kucera looks to Nura, “You’re alright now, dear?” Nura says softly, “Yes, fully recovered.” Though I doubt that’s actually true, at least psychologically. “This Stroup went to prison,” demands Bob Kucera. Najwa says, “He was. He’s been released.” A look of stupefaction on Kucera’s face, then rage, “What?” “Daddy, he wasn’t convicted of rape or assault, only for shooting the gun, which he says went off accidentally when he was struck by Dr. Kent.” Then more calmly, Rachel explains, “I never formally accused him. I thought it would be too painful. And there was no firm evidence of his attack on Nura.”

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“We don’t believe in abortion, Rachel,” says Mrs. Kucera quietly. “I know, Mom. I’m going to have the baby. It’s not the baby’s fault. In the summer, then I’ll give it up for adoption.” “Our first grandchild,” says Daphne Kucera with regret. “Oh, Mom,” sighs Rachel with impatience. “Where is Stroup now?” asks Bob Kucera. “See, Daddy, that’s why I was afraid to tell you. I didn’t know what you, Bobby, and Johnny would do,” pleads Rachel. He stares at his daughter. Saying finally, “We can’t do nothing.” “You must,” says Rachel. “Dr. Kent convinced me to come and tell you.” Again, re- directing her father. He glances at me, then looks back to Rachel, “This Stroup is in Lake Shore?” “That’s why you want to transfer schools,” says Mrs. Kucera. “Yes.”

The talk goes on for another hour. Back and forth, with Nura, Najwa, and I only occasionally speaking, mostly to answer questions or to clarify what Rachel is saying. It comes out that Najwa is in Lake Shore to protect her sister. That being in the condo, with me on the floor below, is for the same reason. That stokes Kucera’s rage again. But the talk continues, Mrs. Kucera getting us into the kitchen, where we share a quickly assembled buffet lunch. And on into the early afternoon. Kucera’s anger becoming quieter and, maybe, deeper, if I read him correctly. Eventually it is Mrs. Kucera assuring herself that Rachel is taking all due care for both the baby’s health and her own. Najwa talking of the meals she prepares, and the vitamins she has Rachel taking. Mrs. Kucera insists that Rachel see a doctor or midwife, take all necessary precautions. The focus then is on Rachel and the child rather than Michael Stroup’s outrage. This seems to calm Bob Kucera further.

Mid-afternoon, Nura, Najwa, and I depart. Rachel will stay overnight with her family. Tomorrow we’ll drive back, Rachel with us. Mrs. Kucera suggesting we visit the art center or go down to the museum, which, in the end, we do to wile away the day. A pleasant supper at the Canal Bistro, with only a few stares at the Muslim ladies in their headscarves. Indiana being, perhaps, the most backward of the Northern states. The only interruption is a set of Mango texts. One to Greece, the U.N. translator having returned home, another to the Emirates, the third to Sheng Jun, with the accompanying texts to actual friends. To do so, I excuse myself from Najwa and Nura; they in the midst of debating going to see a movie, it being Saturday night. On my return to the table, the decision is to go back to the Airbnb, watch a movie on TV, maybe make popcorn later. Najwa yawning, saying she might want to go to bed early. A knowing look from Nura to me makes me realize that she knows Najwa was with me last night.

Several hours later, as I am readying myself for bed, my mobile dings. I look at the text. It’s from China — Yan Chilian greeting. I respond. An exchange of messages in which she

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Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell shares with me that she is pregnant. I don’t know what to feel, a stab of fear or guilt, a flutter of concern and uncertainty. ‘Mine?’ I respond. ‘At New Year 2019, we use no protection.’ Just as I did not in the very early morning hours with Najwa, I think. ‘Ours, then.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What do you want to do?’ ‘Birth baby.’ Then, ‘You give some support?’ Calculating, the baby seven weeks along. Born in September, presumably. Another message from Chilian, “Not worry. We not marry. Just need help.’ My responsibility. I message back, ‘Yes, I help.’ ‘Good. I count on you, Auberon.’ I’m not sure what I can afford or what else she will need. ‘Yes, you can.’ ‘Okay. I tell my mother then.’ I had forgotten for the moment that Chilian supports her mother, too. The mother not very healthy after years working in the fields, then later in some unsafe factory in Dongguan. Something about dust affecting her lungs. A smoker, too, like so many in China. ‘Alright. Let me know what you need.’ Then a photo of Chilian, smiling hopefully. A lovely young woman.

Tonight I’m using the bedroom that was Rachel’s on Friday. Lying there staring up at the ceiling. Thinking, what does this mean, having a child in China? Fearful of what this might do to this nascent romance with Najwa. The temptation to conceal it from Najwa. It would not be difficult, I think. She need never know. Yet, I would know, and I think it could fester. I do care about Yan Chilian’s well-being. That last time at New Year’s was not a transaction. Then thinking about Najwa. Is this a momentary thing? Some aberration of a trip together? I don’t think so, not for her. Not for me. But it is at an early stage. Not inevitably more to come. There is her father to think of, what would Mr. al Razi think of this relationship? Could he countenance marriage between Najwa and an American? Well, I’m getting ahead of myself. Marriage? The bedroom door opens, softly, “Auberon?”, and Najwa glides into the room.

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Chapter 28: Not a Killer

I wake at 7:00, having gotten about three hours of sleep, Najwa and I talking through the night. She is beside me in bed, still asleep. Light of morning, and I lie there thinking of all that was said. We talked of her husband, the risk taker. What people call an adrenaline junkie. I don’t get the sense that Najwa loved him as the marriage was arranged and relatively brief before his death. We talked of Madzie. We talked of Yan Chilian and her pregnancy. Even about Mus’ad al Razi, her father, and Salma, her mother; about my father and Rudiger. A little of my mother, Najwa saying I must open the box of photos and papers that was sent to me. We agreed to marry. She will handle her father’s objections. She and her mother. Now, lying here, I examine that idea again. Marriage. Najwa al Razi, this practical yet optimistic woman beside me. There is one more thing I must tell her, I decide. I must tell her about Mango. She stirs, whispers, “Must we get up?” “Not yet.” “You are worried, Auberon.” “You sure you want me, now that it’s morning?” I ask. “If you want me, yes. We do not say forever, Auberon. A word that is meaningless. We say for now; each and every day we say to each other, for now.” “There could be days when there are doubts.” She chuckles, “Not could be, will be. But we simply say, doubts can keep; for today, we are together. Each and every time we feel doubt.” “You’re certain.” “Yes, Auberon. I am certain today.” I can’t help but smile. Today I’m certain, too. We kiss. Then my practical helpmate says, “Now go back to sleep. You have a long drive later.”

After a late lunch, and picking up Rachel from her parents, we drive north. It was at lunch that Najwa and I told Nura that we intend to marry. Najwa no longer attempting to hide from her sister our being together. Rachel learns of it, too, on the ride as the sisters discuss how to handle their father, when the marriage should occur, as well as any legal hurdles what with Najwa here on a visa, even some wedding plans, much of it discussed in Arabic, but including me at junctures in English. Somehow Rachel seems to feel great satisfaction in this impending marriage, saying, “I thought from the first you two should be together.” Then to Nura, “You’re not disappointed it’s not you?” “Never could be me. I am not a widow, like Najwa.” Which seems to be the key in forestalling any objections from Mus’ad al Razi. Despite being tired, despite the question of Chilian’s pregnancy, or Rachel’s for that matter, it is a happy ride back to Lake Shore.

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As we come in, with our overnight bags, Jerome the Doorman warns us, “Not sure you can go in your condo, Ms. al Razi, Ms. Kucera.” One Ms. al Razi seeming to cover both Nura and Najwa. “Why is that, Jerome?” exclaims Najwa. “Crime scene. Police have taped it off.” “Crime? Alexis?” I blurt. Jerome nods sadly, “Yes, she’s at St. Raphael’s.” “What happened?” asks Najwa. “Someone got in her apartment last night. Beat her up.” Jerome spreads his hands, “Wasn’t on my shift.” “We must go to the hospital,” says Rachel. “What about her parents?” I ask, but Jerome doesn’t know if they’ve been informed. All he knows is Alexis was able to call 911 around five this morning. After that, police and paramedics arrived. We leave for the hospital.

We’re not all able to see Alexis at one time. Rachel and Nura go first, come out after ten minutes, Rachel crying and Nura pale. Najwa and I go in. With the bandaging, it’s hard to tell the extent of the damage, but the swelling is evident. Nose re-set, one eye closed entirely, the other a slit, glittering. Voice a sibilant hoarse whisper, saying “It’s bad isn’t it.” Faltering, Najwa answers, “Too early to tell how bad.” “Reconstructive surgery,” whispers Alexis. “Dental work, replace teeth.” “Who did this? Michael Stroup?” I demand. “I think so.” A pause, “I opened the door, got hit in the face with a club. Don’t know much after that.” “Can you identify him?” I ask. A slight movement of her head, maybe a shake, “Not really. But who else could it be?” “You rest, Alexis. Recover,” says Najwa. “Your parents know?” I ask. “Yes. They’re coming.”

Monday mid-morning, I’m able to take a brief break from St. Drogo’s customers to speak to Marek Zalewski, here for coffee and to see Emma, along with his partner, Detective Norbury. Marek says, “We questioned Stroup, but he’s got a rock solid alibi for Saturday night. He and his buddy, Franzen, with two girls, spent the night together.” Norbury adds, “We know the kid’s dirty, but he didn’t do the beating.” “Hired it done?” I speculate. Norbury shrugs. Zalewski says, “We looked at tapes from the security cameras. We think the perp came in on the tail end of a party of kids going to the fifth floor. About eleven at night. With the weather, everyone bundled up, you know. Quarter hour later is when Alexis Radley answered the door and got hit. We think the guy was in the al Razi condo for no more than twelve

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Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell minutes. Then the perp left out the back, through the garage. Just a dark figure, all bundled. Could be anyone.” Norbury says, “Ms. Radley was beaten unconscious. Wasn’t able to rouse enough to call it in until 4:49.” “Found an unfinished table leg three blocks away in a dumpster. Still had a Home Depot tag on it. Blood matched Ms. Radley,” adds Zalewski. Norbury glances at Zalewski, maybe irritated at him giving unannounced evidence away, but says, “We’re followed up on that. Looks to have been stolen.” As Destiny calls me back to work, I ask, “Have you checked on Geoffrey Burke? Another of Stroup’s pals.”

Why is there so much evil in the world? Philosophers and theologians wrestle with that. I think it’s simple. Some people care only for themselves or, if not simply themselves, then only for an exclusionary few others defined as those family, friends, and acquaintance who seem like minded. Those others whose self-interest coincides with their own, even if temporarily, like in a mob. We all have dark urges at times, destructive impulses born of frustration or fears. Most of us bridle such urges most of the time. There are those, though, who don’t, especially if they can focus such impulses on those they deem inferior, denying the common humanity. This is what I’m thinking, as I sweep St. Drogo’s floor. That Stroup and some of his friends denigrate those around them to make themselves feel superior. Feel privileged, as above ordinary morality. I sigh. Maybe I’m full of hot wind. Hard to place myself in the shoes of someone who would attack Alexis so brutally and without provocation. Or, Nura, previously. Or, rape Rachel. And I’ve circled back to Michael Stroup and his closest pals. My anger and frustration over this — my dark urge — is to eliminate Stroup. Presuming him beyond redemption. “Auberon, you’ll wear away the floor,” interrupts Emma. I hadn’t realized how furiously I’ve been sweeping. I have to laugh, “Don’t worry, the floor is tougher than the broom.” Looking to St. Drogo’s image, seeing his half-smile and wink, offers me relief. Most people are good enough, bear their burdens, share their joys, give. That’s what St. Drogo seems to say to me.

Before going home after work, I try several jewelry and antique stores. Seems like I should give Najwa a ring, but I don’t find anything that seems suitable, at least, in my price range, which admittedly is low. Maybe Najwa would want to help pick something out? On reaching our building, I find that Najwa is back in their apartment again. They’d stayed the night in my place. Yellow crime scene tape is gone. Najwa says, “Alexis’ parents were at the hospital. LWC was notified, so their representative was there, too — Brianna Weatherford.” “How is Alexis?” Making a face, Najwa gestures with thumb and forefinger to indicate a little progress. Though Nura and Rachel aren’t here, being in classes, she still says softly, “She was raped, too.”

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“While unconscious,” I exclaim “Yes, dazed anyway.” I picture it, and am enraged again. Who could do that? Rape a bloody, inert, semi- conscious girl? Then another thought, “DNA?” “Maybe,” says Najwa. “How long is it good for taking samples?” I don’t know. Did Alexis try to clean herself up before the medics were there? Maybe ending the DNA possibility. I don’t know that either. “I’ll ask Marek Zalewski when I see him next.” “I called my father,” says Najwa. “Let him know about this.” “About Alexis’ beating?” She touches my arm, “Also about us.” An instant of disquiet in me over his reaction. “What did he say?” “His blessing.” Najwa’s smile is cryptic, “Grudging at first.” Her gesture dismisses however she persuaded him. “Nura is his favorite, anyway. He is more worried about what happened to Alexis. What it could mean for us.” Pensive a moment, she adds, “He asked if you own a gun.” I do actually. A pair of Mausers, the Spanish rifle from 1950 and the Belgian made in 1951, the first bored at .30-06 and the second at .303. Bolt-action antiques really, though lethal military rifles. Leftover from my father, something else Rudiger was jealous about. What dad called his coyote guns. But that’s not what Najwa means, she is thinking a handgun — an automatic or revolver — so I shake my head no. She smiles, “That’s what I told him.”

Later, down in my apartment after supper, the three ladies upstairs in their place, I go into my closet and pull out the nearest sleeved rifle. Untying the sleeve and pulling free the rifle, it turns out to be the Spanish one. Its stock and frame a nicer wood then on the Belgian piece. I don’t know why dad had two of these rifles. Maybe it was a deal to buy two at some gun show fifty years ago. Going back in the closet, I find the wooden case filled with boxes of ammunition. There’s more of the .30-06 than the .303. The .303 cartridges are supposed to be armor piercing. Probably not really unless the armor is thin. I’m guessing when dad bought these, they were the only .303 shells available. The trigger is locked, though I have the little key. I load three cartridges in the magazine. It’s been decades since I fired this gun. We used to go shoot cans on my father’s farm. I was pretty good even without a scope. My eyesight undoubtedly was sharper back then. Sitting on the floor, the rifle across my lap, I am thinking about Michael Stroup. About Nura, Alexis, and Rachel, too. Despite despising the boy, I recognize he is a boy still even if he thinks he’s a man. Though I want him gone — imprisoned, I suppose — even more I’d like him reformed, however unlikely that is. I sigh; I’m not a killer. I unload the rifle, secure it back in its sleeve, and place it and the case of ammunition back in the closet. Save it for if and when there’s revolution in the streets.

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Chapter 29: Singapore, Maybe

The following Thursday at St. Drogo, just after opening and the initial rush, Detective Zalewski asks Emma, Destiny, and me, “Could one of you secure a mug or cup used by Geoffrey Burke if he comes in this morning? Or tomorrow if not today?” “DNA?” I ask. He purses his lips, says softly, “We have a sample from Sunday. Nothing to match it against yet.” Destiny asks, “Burke is a suspect?” Nodding, Marek hands each of us a latex glove and plastic bag, saying, “It goes in here. Tag it with Burke’s name and date, your initials.” Then he adds, “This is a little unorthodox. If it tests negative, then so much for that. We clear him off our list. If positive, then we’ll take it from there. He’s not to know you’ve picked up his mug. Understand?” We all nod, though Emma seems a little uncertain, probably not about the task but about involving St. Drogo. Marek Zalewski asks, “What’s his drink?” Destiny looks to Emma, “It’s a double espresso in the morning, right? But he comes in again later after my shift.” Emma, who’s worked all the shifts, says, “Just black coffee in the afternoon. Likes it bitter.” “Good,” approves Marek. “No milk or sugar. Easier for the analysis.” I say, “We’re not on in the afternoon. Sam, Ryan, and Fleming then.” “Emma, call me if you’re successful this morning. Maybe we won’t need to bother Sam and the others,” answers Marek.

An hour later, it’s Destiny who clears the over-full dish pan from the front station that includes Burke’s espresso cup. In back, pretty much out of sight of customers, she bags the cup carefully. At a pause in the morning stream of orders, Emma calls Marek. The two detectives come by at noon, speak briefly to Emma and Destiny, and are gone with their prize. Destiny tells me, “It will be a few days, maybe by Monday or Tuesday, before they’ll know if it’s a match. We’re to act perfectly normal when Burke is in the shop.” “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I acknowledge, though truthfully I don’t know how I’d react if Michael Stroup shows up and don’t much like when Franzen or Burke are here, his particular buddies. So far, Stroup seems to be staying clear of St. Drogo since his release. Morning shift keeps you hopping, especially the first couple hours and then again through the lunch period. So there’s not a lot of time to dwell on other things.

It’s just before two in the afternoon, when I’ll be off work, that I get a call. All six of us are here now, first and second shift, so it’s not a big deal taking the call. A fellow I worked with at FPK briefly, Johnny Bemis, a Brit, is on the line, surprising me. After initial greetings and remembrances, he says “Aubbie, the reason I called there’s an assignment in Singapore that’s right in your line. Not really my cup of tea, but you’d be perfect. Three months work and you’d clear a pretty packet.”

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The money would certainly be useful, but I’m thinking Najwa and St. Drogo, disinclined to be away at this time, so I say, “I’m sort of in the midst of things here currently. When would it need to start?” “Soon, I think. Pook has the details. Do you remember Pook? From that project in Shenzhen? Asked if I knew how to get in touch with you.” Bemis has the habit of giving people nicknames, like calling me Aubbie, which I dislike. Something leftover, no doubt, from being called that in primary school. So I don’t quite place Pook. “You mean the fellow who handled the billing negotiations?” “Yes, that’s Pook.” Poon Pak, I think, though for the client, in Han Chinese instead of Cantonese, it was Pan Bai. I never had much impression of the man. “I’m willing to talk over the assignment with him.” “Great. Let me give you his contact information,” which Bemis proceeds to do. We end the call with mutual good wishes. Bemis a gladhander kind of guy, though quite competent in his compensation field. Good to be called on, I suppose, even if I decide against taking the job. If I go at $250 an hour for 12 or 13 weeks, say 32 to 40 hours a week, it would make the year, even after taxes. Be conservative, average 32 hours over 12 weeks, it’s a gross of $96,000. Najwa would probably understand me taking that on, it’s only a quarter-year. If it were in Hong Kong I wouldn’t consider it, given my days of detention there. The net would come in at about $75,000, I think. Maybe I could send half the net on to Yan Chilian. That would help her and the child. It’d be around 225,000 yuan for her. Depending on the exchange rate, might go to 250,000. Well, no reason to count my chickens before they hatch. I’ll talk with Poon Pak first.

Actually, I talk it over with Najwa first. She’s not pleased with the idea but understands my desire to earn my keep. Her comment is, “If you do this, Auberon, then no girlfriends in Singapore. Maybe I should go with you.” “Nura’s out of school in May. If it’s as Bemis says, three months starting in March, then it ought to close out by early June. You could join me once Nura’s out of school and back in D.C.” I add, “In my experience these projects rarely start promptly due to contract negotiations. It’s as likely to start the beginning of April and run on into July, since they often end up being more work than originally anticipated. But I’m just speculating until I talk with Poon Pak.” “Talk to him, then. Let’s see what he says.” A new experience, this, having to take into account Najwa’s concerns. I’m not used to joint decision-making. I don’t mind, really, recognizing that our marrying will change expectations. After all, I managed it with Madzie years ago. She goes on, “Maybe we move forward the marriage. Wed before the project.” She smiles, says softly, “No need to wait, Auberon.” I suppose there isn’t. No family on my side except Chloe and Skyler, plus some distant relatives. Her father and the larger family are more of an issue, I guess. “We can.” She grins, “Yes.”

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That evening I call Poon Pak, it being morning of the next day in Hong Kong. According to Pak, the client is privately held and family-owned: real estate development, residential estates, hotels, shopping malls, restaurants, food service and products, water, soft drinks, breweries, and imported liquor. It’s the latter portion, food service and beverages, which need re-organization. Companies originally acquired for their land holdings rather than their primary businesses. That latter portion centered in Singapore but with operations and offices throughout Asia: Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, Viet Nam, China, the Philippines, Japan, and South Korea. The holding company is actually in Hong Kong, but the project is with the Singapore subsidiary. Puts me in mind of the book and movie titled Crazy Rich Asians. A warning bell goes off in my mind when Pak says the main factory is now located in Xiamen, which is in Fujian province, China, opposite Taiwan. I’m reassured when Pak says he doubts I’d need to leave Singapore to visit other company sites. The advantage of video conferencing for interviews and meetings. He doesn’t blink at the $250 an hour. After all, FPK used to charge clients $400 an hour for my time. Rather than sub-contracting to FPK, though, I’d subcontract to Pak himself. He will manage the admin support that I’d need, his admin assistant in Singapore being a woman named Wendy, Chinese name of Lam Waiyi. I ask, “Are you independent now? Left FPK?” “No, no. still with FPK. This assignment different. Owner want it a secret, so come to me direct. I do this on the side.” I doubt that’s legit from FPK’s viewpoint. You sign an agreement precluding competitive work when you’re an employee. Though I suppose Pak isn’t actually doing the work, even if he’ll earn an override on top of my charges for his time and the admin. After all, he’ll be managing the account. No, definitely a conflict of interest. Still, is that his problem and not mine? Possibly it’d burn any possibility of me working with FPK in the future. Yet I need the money. “Okay, Pak, I guess that’s your issue, not mine.” We talk further about the work itself as it’s been outlined with the client to date. He’ll send me the draft contract with its schedule of work, pricing, estimated hours, and the like. I’ll review it, make any suggestions on the project plan and schedule, and get it back to him by the first, a week away by tomorrow. He’s thinking the earliest start date would be March 18 and more likely the 25th or the first of April. He’ll also schedule a call with the client’s project director for next week, an interview of me. We close off the call. Afterwards, I sit on my couch, wondering why I feel uneasy about this deal. Decide it’s mostly due to Pak handling it separately from FPK; and, maybe, because of the Hong Kong and, presumably, China connection. Leery of both after the January detention. Still, Mango texts have been tapering off. I have the sense that it’s drawing to a close, which pleases me. I still haven’t told Najwa about Mango.

The monthly call with Madzie didn’t go all that well. Not once I shared the news that I would be marrying in a few weeks. I guess it was okay that she had a partner and was marrying this year, but not me. I didn’t expect jealousy on her part. Or maybe not jealousy, but a kind of complacent ownership of me that she assumed would always exist. Afterwards, I feel sad that what once was good is now spoiled, yet also a sense of relief that an obligation I’ve felt for years is lifted.

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Chapter 30: Snare

The news of Geoffrey Burke’s arrest comes on Wednesday, the 27th. Lots of buzz among a goodly segment of LWC students at St. Drogo’s. Not that he is as popular as Michael Stroup. Some students are shocked, though a few evince no surprise. When Joshua Franzen shows up, there are no bright greetings for him as he’s consigned to being a hanger on of Stroup and Burke. I almost feel sorry for the kid, who seems, if anything, bewildered by the turn of events. Anyway, I give him a large latte for the price of a small. The boy keeps his head down and works on his laptop. Students don’t stay subdued for long. Jim McAdoo’s laugh, the high-pitched chattering of Megan Nowak and her two friends, Ashley Bowers in banter with Sam, others jabbering. In truth, it feels good.

My call with the project director from Yau Yik is scheduled for this evening. Properly, it’s Yau Yik Heiseui Gungsi or Yau Yik Soft-Drink Company, which is the major subsidiary of the group of companies involved in the re-organization. Yau Yik being the name of the founder of the soft-drink firm back in 1928, though he actually started the business at least a decade earlier at a local market. I’m not nervous about the call, while recognizing that I’m still a little iffy about the project. I haven’t said anything to Sam yet as I’m still not a hundred percent certain this will go forward. I do need to give her enough forewarning to find a timely replacement for me. So that’s on my mind when Michael Stroup enters St. Drogo. He receives a few greetings as he makes his way to Franzen’s table, though not nearly as many as he might have received back in October. Even Joshua Franzen seems uncomfortable at Stroup joining him. I’m busy making a cappuccino for an LWC freshman when the shouting erupts between Franzen and Stroup. Stroup angry at Franzen’s refusal to go with him. Really, at being shunned by Franzen. It’s Sam who asks Stroup to quiet down, and when he rounds on her, saying some expletives I don’t quite catch, it’s she who orders him out of the café. For Just a moment, it looks like he’s going to hit her. But then Destiny is beside Sam, and I see Jim McAdoo rising from his place to help. Stroup yells some threat in disgust and stomps out of the café. A moment of silence, then a titter from among the students, releasing their tension at the scene. Franzen slumps back down in his seat. Sam quickly calls us together, Destiny, Emma, and me, saying, “Michael Stroup is banned from St. Drogo. I’ll tell you if I ever lift the ban, understand?” We nod. She’s blows out a breath, then chuckles, “I guess I’ll cool down too.” Emma says, “Good it wasn’t Ryan dealing with him.” Ryan is a sweet mellow guy, but he can get upset by such confrontations. Destiny says, “Well, Auberon would just throw a computer bag at Stroup,” which gets a laugh from Sam.

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Later, after my shift, I sit with a mocha and sketch pad, drawing the likeness of Nura from a photo. The drawing is a three-quarters view and I’m having difficulty with the mostly hidden cheek. There’s the top bit near the left eye, then the nose covering the cheek, and finally where the lower most portion of the cheek emerges and links in with the muscles about the mouth. Somehow, as I draw it, the lower and upper portions don’t seem to match well enough. I erase a little of the lower section and try again. Almost like déjà vu, Pritchard is opposite me and asks, “May I sit with you?” I look about for Joyce Nierman but she’s not here. Pritchard sits, says, “That’s your student, Nura al Razi, right?” gesturing at the drawing. “No longer my student, but a friend, yes.” “Soon to be a sister-in-law, I understand.” Uncanny, how much they know of my life. Though Pritchard’s purpose in saying that may be to unsettle me. I nod. “Congratulations,” he smiles. “A wealthy widow.” Is he trying to get a rise out of me? “Is she?” I know she’s well off or her father is, but she and I’ve never talked about it. “Yet you want to take on a consulting assignment in Singapore with Yau Yik.” Ah, I think, now we’re getting to the reason for this visit. “Possibly, I talk with their project director tonight.” “The project is real, we believe. We think the reaching out and tapping you, though, may be to set up a sting by Chinese Intelligence.” “Why would they? They’ve already had me in their cells.” I have considered this possible danger but decided it was unlikely. “Different purpose, maybe more senior players now. We think they’d blackmail you into working for them.” I can see that Pritchard is serious. I protest, “I don’t have access to industrial, technological, or state secrets.” “You are a safe conduit for us, and so could be for them.” “Not so safe,” I answer, “if they were on to me in January.” He shrugs, “They were on to Zhou Maque. Turns out, their scientist only divulged certain things to her in their pillow talk. Process of elimination and they came up with her. Then stumbled on the possibility of you.” No comfort to me. But Pritchard goes on, “They let you run on, keeping track. Now they’re certain of Sheng Jun, too. Possibly Luo Jiaohua, as well — Juanita. Miao Tianxin is still in the clear, it seems.” I nod numbly, thinking of my friends, how I’ve exposed them to danger — Jiang Lienhua, Yan Chilian, others. He sees me connecting the dots. Says, “They’d use your friendships against you. Especially Chilian’s pregnancy. That’s how they’d blackmail you.” “Threaten the child?” “Share the information with Najwa al Razi, for example,” he replies. Well, good they don’t know everything, I think. “I’ve told Najwa about Yan Chilian being pregnant with our child.”

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His eyebrows raise, “Good for you.” He chuckles. Leans forward, “The point is, Dr. Kent, we don’t think you should join the consulting project.” Leans back, and adds, “Unless you are willing to be a triple agent.”

The talk with the Yau Yik project director seems to go well. Actually, there are three people on the video call from Yau Yik: the project director, Edward Chan; his boss, the VP of HR, a woman named Cherry Lee — Li Puichi; and a finance guy, Mr. Hung. Hung is the toughest to satisfy, questioning the consulting hours and resulting costs on each proposed work stream. He balked at Yau Yik paying for admin support, but finally agreed to take that aspect up with Poon Pak. It does surprise me that Poon Pak isn’t on the call, too. Not a firm go ahead yet, but definitely closer. They all seem legitimate to me, and, as Pritchard said, the consulting engagement is real. Is Pritchard over-reacting, thinking this is a sting to snare me? Everything seems bona fide to me. Despite what Pritchard says, and working for Mango or I should say the government, the idea of China doing something this elaborate for my sake seems a fantasy.

As we get ready for bed — Najwa mostly living in my apartment now — I say, “There’s something more I haven’t told you.” “About the consulting job?” she asks from the bathroom. “Not exactly.” I go to the doorway, pause to admire her long hair as she stands at the mirror, her hair hidden during the day by her headscarf, take a breath and continue, “For some time now I have been carrying out a task for a government agency.” “Oh? Research?” “No. Conveying information they want sent to various people, mostly in China but elsewhere, too.” A puzzled look on her face. I’m guessing she can tell I feel this is important yet what I’ve described doesn’t sound all that significant. She turns to me, “So?” She is still rubbing some cream lightly onto her forehead. “Coded instructions,” I say. Comprehension as she whispers, “Spies?” I nod. An intake of breath on her part, but before she says anything more, I add, “One in China was caught and some others may have been revealed.” “Your detention there,” she guesses. Then she says, “The assignment in Singapore, is that more of this?” “Not quite, but it’s been suggested that someone may be taking advantage of it to snare me further.” “Then you can’t do it, Auberon,” she says firmly, never welcoming the idea of me being away for three months. Then she asks, “Why is this the first you’ve told me? What do you mean, snare you?” “Threaten my friends in China to make me work for the Chinese as a double agent.” Concern on her face, “Yan Chilian?” “Yes, and other friends, like Jiang Lienhua.” She looks to the mirror a moment, the cream absorbed. Asks, “You sent the money to Chilian today?”

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I nod. Lately Najwa has become interested in Chilian or, at least, Chilian’s pregnancy, wanting details of its progress, examining photos Chilian sends by wechat. Making sure I send money so Chilian can see a doctor, buy vitamins, and prepare for the baby’s needs. Najwa’s heightened interest I find odd, yet I go along with it. I would help Chilian regardless. We are just over two weeks away from our marriage — March 16th. There are preparations for the event that occupy us — arranging for family members to come, for the rehearsal and its dinner, the wedding and its reception. Not a religious wedding, neither Christian nor Islam — purely secular. Neither one of us is a believer in the faiths of ancient desert nomads or their townsfolk kin. For legalities, it will first take place on Friday, the 15th, at city hall. Our own ceremony, which we’ve devised, and where we’ll take our vows before our families and friends will be on Saturday at a reception room at the local history museum. Najwa draws me back to the present, “Is Chilian a spy?” “No. But an acquaintance of hers was caught.” “In her profession?” Then Najwa waves her hand, “No matter. Are Chilian and the baby in danger?” “Maybe. If the idea of a snare is correct, it’s possible. That is, if I refuse to cooperate.” “Can you stop? Not go? Stop sending instructions?” “After the January detention, I said I’d stop to the agency here. They want it to taper off, not end abruptly, for fear it could expose others. The Chinese have identified a second agent connected to me, another acquaintance of one of my friends, so it may be time to end it completely. Which may mean ending correspondence with friends there, too.” I sigh, run a hand over my face. “I wish I’d never begun it.” Undoubtedly there’s more to discuss about it, but my mobile buzzes even though it’s close to midnight. I hate late night calls, they usually mean trouble. I go to the nightstand and pick it up, “Hello?” “Auberon, it’s Sam.” I recognize her voice but not the anxiety in it, “What’s happened, Sam?” “Someone tried to burn down St. Drogo. Well, the whole building.”

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Chapter 31: Fire Sale

Walking into St. Drogo at 4:30 Thursday morning, we find Sam and Ryan scrubbing walls darkened by smoke. Sam has regained her equilibrium, no longer certain that her investment in St. Drogo has literally gone up in smoke. She nudges Ryan, saying to us, “Three in the morning and he says we should have a fire sale. Made me laugh. Said we had to set to work, righting the place. I swear more damage is from the water used to put out the fire. Whoever set it was pretty inept.” Ryan adds, “Can you wash down the counters? We’re going to open on time, come hellfire or water.” Najwa and I set to work. By five, Nura, Destiny, Emma, and Fleming are here as well, all pitching in to restore the shop. At six, Sam unlocks the front door and the first customers spill in. The smoke smell is lingering. The damage to the back hall and the rear portion of the food prep area will need re-building, but is boarded off for now. The ladies rest room is shut down, so the gents is now unisex. Yet St. Drogo is in business. The neighboring tenant didn’t fare as well and is closed. The upstairs apartments are undamaged, other than the smoke. It was one of those renters who discovered the fire and called it in before it got worse. Clearly, it was arson. So fire inspectors and police both come by, and get coffee while carrying out their duties. They’re told of the threat Stroup mouthed yesterday, though that could be coincidental or even someone taking advantage of it to implicate Stroup. Turns out, Mrs. Seaver is the landlady. A management company handles the property, but she’s the ultimate owner. As she considers it ‘her cappuccino spot’ she is there expediting the damage assessment from the insurance company and a builder. Still, Sam is out $1,000 in deductible on her insurance. A $1,000 she can ill afford. So by 10:30, Sam and Ryan are sitting across from Najwa at a back table. I’m up front grinding coffee beans, while Emma is sweeping and Destiny’s at the cash register taking an order. Nura’s gone home to catch up on her sleep. Fleming is out at the wholesaler picking up supplies to replace what’s lost. The conversation at the back table interests me, it seems serious, but we’re busier than normal what with so many coming to see the damage and staying for coffee, tea, or hot chocolate and a pastry. There’s a brief lull at 11:00, though soon we’ll have the lunch crowd. The place is still buzzing, but Najwa takes me aside, “Auberon, I have done something rash.” “What, dear?” She smiles even as she sighs, “I have bought St. Drogo. You need to give me a dollar.” “What, why a dollar?” “So we are partners.”

Turns out, Sam and Ryan will stay with St. Drogo into May, when they’ll wed and take a honeymoon before moving for Ryan’s fall job. They’ll teach Najwa all she needs to run the business, though she may need to be an absentee owner if we can’t move from a visa to a

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Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell green card. A sobering thought as our wedding is coming soon. She would go back to France, if necessary, until the legalities get sorted out. She has no interest in returning to the Emirates, other than an occasional visit to see family and some former classmates. Privately, I wonder if my work for Mango could be parlayed to expedite Najwa’s residency. Then decide I don’t want to trade favors with Mango, who knows to what further entanglements that might lead. As soon as I have my $10,000 back from Sam when the sale goes through, I intend to send half to Chilian. Likely, that amount will need to be a bank-to-bank transfer. So I send her a message explaining and asking for her bank account details. I hope that’s not seen by Chinese Intelligence as proof she’s an agent. Next, is a message to Poon Pak, letting him know I need to decline the consulting assignment with Yau Yik. Ask if he wants me to inform them directly or whether he wants to handle it. On my Mango phone, I send a text stating the same even though I’m unsure if I should communicate in that manner, but claiming ‘parrot, parrot’ seems too outlandish for such a purpose.

By late afternoon, I feel exhausted. Up all night. Yet here I am at St. Drogo, drinking a mocha, and outlining a possible book, not on organization design but a fiction on the travails of owning an espresso café. Najwa is behind the counter taking instruction from Ryan on the preparation of various espresso drinks. Fleming is manning the counter. Emma is still here, too, ladling soup for a customer’s late lunch or early supper. Detective Zalewski comes in, followed by his partner, Norbury. I assume to see Emma, until he motions for us to gather, and as we do, says quietly, so customers don’t overhear, “Michael Stroup died twenty-seven minutes ago on the operating table at St. Raphael’s. He was hit by a pick-up truck crossing Reiver Street sixty-three minute earlier, at 3:08.” I think we all gasped, and I for one was sorry to hear it, for the boy and his parents. No redemption possible for Michael any more. Ryan asking, “An accident?” Norbury shakes his head, “Hit-and-run. The vehicle was stolen. Found abandoned at Tolliver and Flagler, by the railroad tracks.” I picture the spot, campus parking there on the east corner, the park and rail line to the west. “Are we suspects?” I ask. Zalewski stares at me briefly, “Not if, as I expect, you can all vouch for your whereabouts at the time. Here, right?” “Yes,” says Emma. “Sam and Destiny were here then, too.” Norbury grunts, adds, “We were looking for him. See if he had an alibi for the arson.” Rachel and Alexis were at the apartment then, surely, I think. Studying. Between the pregnancy and Alexis’ recovering, I don’t see either of them stealing a pick-up to kill Stroup. Nor, due to who there are as persons. But their parents or brothers? Mr. Kucera in particular. Then there’s Nura and Najwa’s father, who knows what he could arrange, especially after Nura called him about the fire and the suspicion of Stroup. But I dismiss all that as unlikely speculation. It’s Najwa who says, “Poor devil. A troubled man and now dead.” A silver lining, I think; Rachel doesn’t need to worry about Stroup making a paternity claim on her child. Which thought brings me back to Mr. Kucera, would he be capable of doing this?

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That night I receive a call from Joyce Nierman, “Dr. Kent, we are concluding the Mango experiment.” Terse as usual. Experiment? I think with some indignation, endangering my friends was an experiment? She goes on, “We thank you for your efforts. We do appreciate your cooperation throughout, especially when in Hong Kong in January.” “That’s it then?” “Yes, the stipend will cease. The NDA continues to apply, of course. We rely on your keeping all of this confidential.” “So being a safe conduit was a failure.” “Mixed results, I’d say. Interesting. Now that you’re marrying a foreign national, it’s time to bring your part to a conclusion. Goodbye, Dr. Kent.” After she clicks off, I stare at the Mango phone. Marrying Najwa is their issue, not the exposure of agents in China? Then I think, well what do I do with their phone?

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Part Five: Sympathetic Amusement

Chapter 32: What a Day

Memorial Day holiday this coming long weekend, the school semester ending with commencement this past weekend. Nura left for Washington with her dad on Tuesday, Rachel and Alexis also gone to their homes. Not sure when I’ll see Rachel again, she starting in the fall at Lewis & Clark in Portland, Oregon. I hope the birth of her child over the summer goes well. Najwa is in France. A bit of uncertainty when I’ll next see my wife. She says not to worry, it should be sorted out before September. Still, she’s ten-weeks pregnant, so I hope she’s back sooner. Sam and Ryan are gone, as well. We gave them a great send-off. I will miss them, but St. Drogo keeps me busy. Emma, Fleming, and Destiny are still with me, plus the three new part-time employees: Todd, Erica, and Twelve. I’m not sure why parents would name their daughter as a number, but Twelve it is. To be truthful, despite Najwa’s absence, I’m feeling pretty good. Thankful, really. Business is down for the moment with the school being out, but the summer classes will start June 4th. I’m going over the plans for our refurbishment of the café, while Emma and Twelve man the counter. We’re adding a mezzanine over the back half of the shop, which we can use as a gallery, offer books and gifts, hold meetings, like classes on café management or a book or film club. Najwa’s idea. Plus changing out the furnishings, refinishing floors, etc., making the place less shabby. The image of St. Drogo will be untouched. He can go on winking at me. I look up to see Dean Selfridge coming toward me, smiling. “Hi, Carolyn, you’re looking cheerful.” “Do you have a few minutes, Auberon? Time to talk?” “Sure.” I set aside the architect’s drawings. ‘What’s up?” She takes a seat, composes herself, “You know of the changes at the college, in the department?” “Eric Munsen?” I ask, not needing to refer directly about his sex scandal. “Ed Placek has been good enough to delay his retirement. He’ll continue through summer, then relinquish the reins to Harper Haliwell. Both Ed and Harper are hoping you will resume two courses.” She hastens at my look, “Not Entrepreneurship. That will stay with Fred Thornburn.” I pity his students, though I suppose they’ll be happy with his A’s. I gesture at the café, “I’m quite busy here.” “Auberon, you’re a natural teacher. Tell me you’re not missing your students and the classes.” I sigh, “I may be missing that aspect, but not departmental meetings, reports, whiny parents of students, and all the other guff.” She laughs, “Price we pay for lighting the fires in young minds.” A pause, then she says, “You would not be a friend to Nura, Rachel, and Alexis, would not be married to Najwa, were it not for your teaching.”

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Carolyn had attended the wedding, along with Harper and Joanie and others from the college. A surprising number of Najwa’s family, including her mother Salma, a most formidable lady. Chloe and Skyler for me, along with their mom, who refrained from any negativity about Islam. Not Madzie, though, as she still hasn’t forgiven me for marrying. “I’ll give it some thought,” I offer, not certain why I’m not just turning the opportunity down. “No doubt you’ll want to discuss it with Najwa. When do you expect her to return from France?” “In a few months.” Dean Selfridge pats my hand, “We want you back where you belong, Auberon.”

The day progresses. At seven, I close up the shop. Walk home to a quiet condo. Thinking maybe I’ll eat out tonight, not wanting the silence of being alone. I’d sent Najwa an email earlier about the job offer at LWC, suggesting we talk about it tomorrow on our every- other-day call. Dropping off my computer bag, with all the papers of the impending construction that can begin once the permit is granted, I head back out. Feel like an Indian meal tonight, something spicy. Maybe baingan bharta on saffron rice. I cross Reiver Street to go downtown, and it makes me think of what Marek Zalewski told Emma. The killing of Michael Stroup is unsolved. Early theories of joy riding teenagers made way for something darker given several surveillance videos and the involvement of the FBI. It’s now felt to be a hit-for-hire. The assassin is suspected to be an elusive man known as The Consultant and thought to be Canadian. The real question, for me, is who would know of such a killer, and who would hire him? I suppose I’ll never know. Yet it must connect to Nura, Alexis, or Rachel, and to their families. Though I shy away from the thought, it seems to me that Mus’ad al Razi is likeliest to have the connections to find an assassin. Only because he’s in a governmental and political position. I could be wrong, of course. The possibility does illumine a facet of my life with Najwa, of marrying into a different culture, into a family of wealth and privilege. There is much Najwa and I have to learn of each other.

After supper and back home, I decide it’s time to open the wooden box of my father’s. Too bad Rudiger isn’t here to do it with me. With a frisson of trepidation, I unseal the box. Photographs. Mother really was quite lovely. A journal, I leaf through it, sketches and writings, some poetry, some thoughts and ideas. Most of the sketches of farm animals, birds, flowers and landscapes, the barn cats, old Rufus, the dog from my childhood. A baby, though whether Rudiger or me, I don’t know. Simple sketches but well executed. A tortoise shell comb. A burgundy colored silk ribbon with a gold charm of a dragonfly. An antique brooch of topaz, garnets, pearls, and a larger red stone all shaped in the spiral of a nautilus, surely a hand-me-down from my mother’s family, of which I know nothing save that she wasn’t raised in our town. An envelope with her birth certificate. The marriage license. These, too, providing more details than I’d known. It strikes me as odd that she would have left all this behind, not just her husband and boys.

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Maybe I should read the journal carefully. Turning to the last entry, I read a cheerful few sentences about milking cows. It doesn’t sound like a despairing mother. Or someone despising farm life. Why and where did my mother go? A chilling thought, did she go voluntarily? Did my father order her out, send her packing? I don’t know. But I resolve to find out more, start with going back in time to the local newspaper there, what was written if anything of my mother? Was there a search and so police reports? Or did people in town know why she left? Questions I’ve never asked before. It was a closed subject with my father. Probably there’s a simple explanation, another man maybe. Or a woman? Only a mystery to me because I’m ill informed. That’s likeliest. Yet I won’t let it rest until I know more. Before speculating further, a buzz from downstairs. I go to the intercom, “Yes?” Jerome answers, “Dr. Kent, you have visitors. A Ms. Nierman. Joyce Nierman and party.” Damnation, I think. I thought I was totally done with Mango. Eight forty-five at night. “Send her up.” Standing at my open door, I am expecting Pritchard and Nierman to step off the elevator, only it’s not. Joyce Nierman certainly, but the second person is a five-months pregnant Yan Chilian. In the U.S., but how? Mango’s doing, obviously, but why? Chilian hanging back, shy behind Nierman, a small duffle bag in her hand. And wearing a backpack. “May we?” asks Nierman, gesturing at the apartment. I close my mouth, which has been gaping, and step aside for them to enter. A little smile from Chilian as she steps by me. Closing the door behind me, I ask, “What is happening? “Dr. Kent, we need you to officially sponsor this young woman in the U.S., and, at least temporarily, employ her at St. Drogo. Here is the paperwork for you to sign.” Nierman spreading several documents on the coffee table. “I realize you know her as Yan Chilian. As you’ll see here, she is now Meng Xuefeng with the English name of Phoenix Meng.” A sudden realization, “Chilian is your agent? Not Zhou Maque.” I look to Chilian, “Your mother? “No mother. A stand-in,” she says. Her English accented but perfectly fine, not the halting English I’ve known. “Dr. Kent, please. I’ve not much time,” says Nierman. “The pregnancy?” I ask. Chilian or Phoenix answers merrily, “Your son. An indiscretion on my part.” A son? “Dr. Kent,” says Nierman. “All that can wait. Sign, please.” An order, not a request.

Late now, Chilian — I must remember to call her Phoenix — is settled in the spare bedroom. I place a call to France, very early morning there. “Najwa, there’s been a development.” I go on to explain, expecting anger or dismay. I keep to essentials, without mentioning Mango or naming Joyce Nierman.

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There is some silence. I know Najwa is thinking this through, my very practical wife. Finally, she says, “I am your wife, Auberon. This woman is not, nor a concubine or girlfriend. True?” “Yes, true.” “You sponsor her so she can make a new safe life here. True?” “Yes.” “You will be the godfather for her son, but the father to our child. True?” I don’t hesitate, though it makes me wince, “True.” “Then it is alright.” A moment of silence more, then she adds, “I know your generous heart, and love you for it, Auberon.”

Leaving a note for Phoenix, I go to St. Drogo at five in the morning. Start the preparations for opening. Thinking today has to be easier than yesterday despite my fatigue. What a day, yesterday. Looking to the image of the saint on the wall, I could swear his smile is wider. I think he feels some sympathetic amusement for me, like I’m a villager come to talk out my problems. Maybe they’re trivial to him. Anyway, I feel gratitude and it might as well be directed to St. Drogo. I bet he would have loved mocha.

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