An excerpt from the next book: III. Alexandria, Virginia Travis Kent let the fruit-flavored smoke drift out of his nose at its own pace, wreathing his head in a thin cloud and partially obscuring his view of the rest of the establishment. He was seated alone with his water pipe in one of the many alcoves of the Sheesha club, on the carpeted floor, propped against carpeted cushions that lined the three walls of his niche. He was watching the other patrons and listening as best he could to their conversations, and at the same time appreciating the intricate design of the excellent Turkoman carpet on the floor in front of him. He did not expect to see or hear anything remarkable. He was here because he enjoyed the water pipe, fondly called a hubbly bubbly by some, and because he was trying to learn Arabic as quickly as possible. He didnt have enough friends who spoke the language, and most of those wanted to work on their English instead, so in addition to his classes, MP3 lessons, and the online materials, he came here to work on listening and trying to think in Arabic, instead of hearing it and translating in his head to English. He thought it was working, if slowly. As usual, everyone else in the place looked Middle Eastern, except for one guy whom he couldnt place. Travis looked like he belonged. He could not count how many times hed been asked whether he was from Syria, Lebanon, Turkey, or even Iraq. None of those was correct. He was of entirely English stock all the way back to the Conquest, and even farther back to the darkest night of time his ancestors were Saxon or even Britons. A distant relative still allegedly in Kent ran an ancestry newsletter hed seen once or twice in his young life. He was related, according to legend, to the ancient line of the Earls and later the Dukes of Kent, hence the name. Obviously before the current line, who were named Spencer, but there you had it. But the story went along the lines that sometime way back coastal raiders from Spain or Portugal, who in turn may have carried Moorish blood or actual Moorish sailors, had raided, plundered, and raped along the coasts of Kent. So every generation there were some few Kents in the family who looked decidedly Middle Eastern, with black hair, dark eyes, heavy beards, and even occasional hawkish noses. Travis was graced with all of these, save that he was spared the nose. Thus he could pass for a Levantine Arab or a Turk with ease, and with some skepticism even for a Northern Peninsular Arab like an Iraqi, or even of a member of one of the formerly nomadic tribes of Northern Saudi Arabia. All he needed was better Arabic. Much better. So he was working on it in the Sheesha club. And he still thought that was rather odd, as he daydreamed with part of his brain while another part tried to figure out where the white guy was from while simultaneously listening to the conversation in the alcove just across from him. The latter hed already correctly deduced was Egyptian, both from the dialect and the accent. They were talking about women of course. He thought the white guy might be from Southern Europe originally, from the facial bones, but he was speaking English with a California accent so he wasnt really interesting. He was getting bored and the daydreaming coalesced and took over the deliberate agenda in his computational queue. Senior year at North Eastern University in Boston, starting the interview process in the worst economy in three generations. About to graduate with a degree in Business, hed hoped to go work in one of the big investment banks in New York, or even better, in a New York branch of one of the big German, British, or Swiss banks. He liked the international line. But interviews were scarce that year. The economy was improving slowly, but the banks were still being stingy with their hiring. So it was either go home and back to work in one of the Finger Lakes wineries in upstate New York, or take what was on offer in the real world. Hed signed up to interview with some Government guy who was recruiting on Campus. Which had been one of the more interesting things hed done up until then. The Guy had steered deftly away from talking at all about what the job might be. Hed asked Travis questions about sports, languages, hobbies, travel, food, wine, even girls and dating on campus. Theyd talked a lot about wine. The guy confessed to being an amateur devotee, and he clearly was, but Travis had worked summers at the wineries upstate since he was 16 and was very good at wine. A strange interview with a guy from the Government recruiting for a civil service job he wouldnt say the first word about. His family had no experience to speak of with government employment, so he didnt know what to make of this. He chalked it up to the truth of the usual stories people told about incompetent federal government employees. And it came to nothing, or so it seemed. Then out of the blue he got a letter from North Carolina, and it was a job offer. No interview, hed never applied, he didnt even know where the hell Asheville was or what the Dunclarrick Group was, except they were offering him the job of Sommelier. In Asheville. But no address, just an email address on Google. Hed tossed it on his desk in the apartment and nearly forgot about it. Until it was the end of May, graduation 2 weeks away, and he had no job yet. Hed re-read the letter and decided that any job was better than no job, and maybe this Dunclarrick outfit was big enough that he could move up into finance or something. He sent a note to the Gmail address and took the job. To his everlasting surprise he checked into his Asheville hotel two weeks after graduation, booked by his new employer, and was directed to the bar by the desk clerk. A guy flagged him over to a table, so he approached, only to get close enough to recognize the Guy from the Government interview. Travis sat down, the guy puts a form on the table and says Sign this. Hed skimmed it, basically said hed spend the rest of his life at hard labor if he ever disclosed anything he was told once hed signed. He gave it maybe a seconds thought and signed: what else could he do, go home? The the guy reaches across the table and offers his hand, and says Im Paul Cameron, welcome to Dunclarrick, Travis. And now, just a bit less than a year later, Travis had a Top Secret clearance, and was spending the next three nights smoking hubbly bubbly and listening to Arabic, and the next three days buying wine for the cellar at Dunclarrick Castle, of all things. The place wasnt even done yet, but when it was it would be the best example of medieval architecture constructed in the last 900 years or so, and among other things he couldnt talk about, Travis was the Sommelier
Posted on: Mon, 10 Mar 2014 00:45:00 +0000
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