John meets Simeon

I sat at my table waiting, moving cutlery back and forth. I organised the condiments for the umpteenth time. Smells of freshly - cooked food drifted across the Restaurant.

The waiter returned with my toast, butter and a small pot of marmalade plus a welcome de-caff coffee. Outside grew warm with the sun's first blush, but air-conditioning cooled the diners inside. Scanning the restaurant area, I ate toast, and sipped my de-caffeinated coffee. I waited for a man in his mid to late fifties; hoping he would be on time: the brother of a market-trader I'd met four days before.

My fellow hotel guests looked towards my table. Sympathetic stares seemed to be implying: "Only Johnny-no-mates would be dining alone." 'Little do you know,' I thought. All eyes would have looked jealously towards me if my wife had graced my table: Liz a huge strength to me. Her support over the years anchored me in safe and familiar harbours. The kindness she emitted wherever she went left a summery atmosphere, warmly encircling me and our two children - Liz, my best friend.

On February 14th 2011 at sixty-one years old I faced a meeting alone. My nerves told me the most important meeting of my life approached. Vinegar bitterness rolled around my stomach, but I fortified myself. Our whole world depended on one encounter. I felt convinced we were presented with a chance; a naked flame flickering in the darkness: our only glimmer of hope. Sitting at my table I reflected, prone to wander and daydream. I thought of the events of the past few days.

I continued to stare through the hotel window and sip my coffee. Unaware that anyone stood at my table I sat up amazed to hear someone speak nearby. I turned my neck and hairs bristled. A short stocky bearded man in his mid-fifties, dressed in a long white sort of nightshirt, and a poncho-like garment with a hole for his head, stood at my shoulder; perched amidst his greying black hair a skull-cap. Lost in my thoughts, I'd missed his approach.

"Are you, Mr. Morgan?" the stranger said again. "May I sit down?" I nodded and he took a seat opposite. Offering me his hand, with bated breath, I shook it, and he carefully examined the tattoo on my hand. He took his time, looking into my eyes: an investigation.

"I'm so glad you came, Mr Morgan," he finally said. "My brother told me all about you before you rang, I've also made my own inquiries. You seem an honest and caring man, and must be courageous to travel alone all this way...alone."

He spoke with an accent: similar to his brother. I noticed an identical black curly beard and the same twinkle in his brown eyes, but his were harder- more severe. His comment about my honesty made me feel a bit queasy. 'Hope James and his friends don't blow it,' I thought. His eyes continued to search me and look at my hand. Stirring myself I decided to grasp the nettle.

"Well I must admit, Simeon, that I had serious reservations and disquiet to hear your brother relate your story," I said. "But if you can help my grandson in any way we would be extremely grateful." The family had stressed that I must not build my hopes up or offer money, before totally convincing evidence appeared.

"Ah yes. Wesley John, your grandson. I understand that he is quite ill. It must be a difficult time for you and your family." I wondered how he knew about my family, and if he knew people like James did, who could "find out things".

"Please, do not be worried, Mr Morgan. We've not been prying," he said, as if he'd read my mind. "My brother asked a few people around the market area, and the locality where you live, whether they knew you. It's amazing what people will tell you over a cup of coffee."

His eyes looked at my coffee cup. I apologised for my lack of common courtesy, and called over the waiter, who took Simeon's order, and also re-filled my cup.

"It's an Eastern tradition, I suppose, Mr. Morgan," he said, "that we like to discuss matters over food and refreshments. Now let's get down to why you came here." He paused when the waiter came over with toasted tea-cakes and coffee, and then continued.

"Let me assure you that my brother and I are not asking for any payment for the box or its contents. Whilst we are, of course, businessmen - recognising things of value - we believe by the way the box came into our possession, and its clear instructions, we are obliged to give it to you. My brother and I have made far more money than we will ever need. The stereotype of Jewish people being like Shylock is not accurate. We are kindly souls. Joseph travels Europe selling flowers, whilst I restore antiques. So do not worry, Mr Morgan, no money will change hands when I give you the box."

When Simeon had finished I felt totally overwhelmed, and about to say something, when my mobile rang: indicating Sean again.

"Please excuse me, Simeon, I really must take this."

"How much do they want, Boss?" I walked a few feet from the table and held the mobile phone closely to my mouth.

"Nothing", I whispered, "absolutely nothing. I'm as gobsmacked as you. Either they're balmy, or we've some genuine altruists. By the way what's happening in Somalia?"

"Holy Mary Mother of God....nothing?" Sean said. I looked at other diners to see if they'd heard him. "That's a surprise. Oh, and in Somalia there are six dead bad guys and four hostages recovered alive and well. I'm flying back in a Kenyan General's jet in an hour."

"Four hostages did you say?" I held the mouthpiece to my lips my voice a whisper. "I thought there were only two?"

"It's a long story, Boss. One's a pretty missionary, and you know me and a pretty face. Plus she's a Catholic. Gotta go". He hung up.

I placed the mobile back into my pocket apologising again to Simeon for the interruption, though he appeared that he had been occupied with his snack. He wiped the remnants of his breakfast from his beard.

'OK, to business' I thought, castle to King's Rook eight, CHECK.'