SAN FRANCISCO
Jack walked out through passport
control, marvelling at the busy disorder and the superficial differences, even
here in the airport, that meant he was on a totally different continent.
Rolling along in front of him he had
a trolley packed with his paintings and two suitcases. He wandered through the
fan of other passengers, spreading out to look for taxis or hire-cars or to
meet their families and friends, then he saw the old man who had to be David
Eden.
He was a lot shorter than Jack and
very thin, with perfectly white hair brushed back from a high forehead. He was
wearing a black suit with a waistcoat only just visible and he was holding up a
plaque that said “JACK CATHOLIC” in beautifully printed computerised script.
“Hi there,” said Jack, pushing the
trolley to the side and extending his hand. “That’s me, I think.”
Eden smiled and when he did so he
looked appallingly like Dominic back in England, his face a sea of jolly
wrinkles. “David Eden,” he said, winking as he took Jack’s hand in his and
shook it. “Welcome to America.” Because of his appearance Jack had expected his
voice to sound like the typical English butler but the USA twang was there
creating a subtly different image. “Do you mind?” He jabbed his sign in between
the cases on the trolley.
“Not at all,” replied Jack, “Where am
I pushing this thing to?”
“Follow me.”
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