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Safe Conduit ST. DROGO OF SEBOURG CAFE Safe Conduit A Novel By Thomas Sundell Safe Conduit Thomas Sundell Copyright © 2019 Thomas Sundell All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanized, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author. 2 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, 3 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?” 4 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.
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