![]() "-the mushy peas," the waiter said with a grin. "Bring me the fish and chips in about a half hour, then. "Too much drink, even this stuff, on an empty stomach is not a good thing, she says." Cathy was the bar manager and was quite capable of following through on that threat. "If you don't eat something soon, Cathy's going to shut off your booze," the waiter warned. The distributor's been slow in his deliveries lately, so you'll have to settle for fifteen-year for the rest of the night." "Cathy says this is the last of the fifty-year bottle. He reappeared a minute or so later with another tulip-shaped whisky glass loaded with exactly the right amount of Scotch and water. The waiter disappeared around the corner to the bar. The waiter took up Vikram's glass with some care. Competition for positions when they opened up was quite stiff. And the staff members were proud of being chosen to work there. One of the traditions was live staff, despite the modern technology available elsewhere. The Turf was known for its traditions about the ambience of the establishment, which dated back for hundreds of years. He waved at a waiter who was floating by. Vikram reclaimed his glass and finished the last finger of liquid in it. That drew a snort in reply, and the Scot took a long pull at his pint. "And you're still coherent? A miracle, that." Neil picked up Vikram's glass and sniffed of it. Vikram laid a finger on the rim of his glass. "Well, then, I have a stern chase ahead of me. "What time is it now?" Vikram looked at his watch. "You take better care of that horse than you do your girlfriend." He took a pull at his glass, and licked a bit of foam from his upper lip. He sounded more Oxonian than most of his classmates, especially the American Rhodes Scholars. Truth to tell, there was still a hint of the melodious Indian lilt to Vikram's tenor, although his diction and pronunciation was pure upper-class English. Of course, Neil would make the same complaint about Vikram's accent. His Highland brogue, although tempered by years in British public schools, was still there, and had more than once tripped Vikram up in conversations, especially when the two of them had lifted more than a few mugs of ale, beer, or Neil's favorite potable, Guinness. That was Neil McLeod, a brash young red-haired Scotsman, studying English language and literature at Merton College. "What's up, Vik? You look like your favorite polo pony died." Vikram felt the vibration as someone else plopped in a chair across the table from him. The tabletop thunked as a glass landed on it. ![]() More importantly, it meant turning his life into channels his father had never considered for his future, which was another packet of chips altogether. But it meant turning his life into channels he had never considered for his future. ![]() He knew what the right thing was for his family in Mumbai, for India, for his friends here in Oxford, for England, for the world. No, actually, make that he knew what he needed to do. He had been considering a decision he needed to make for close to forty-eight hours, and he wasn’t any closer to making it now than he had been when he started. ![]() Vikram Bannerji sat at table number twelve in The Turf Tavern, one of his favorite hangouts in Oxford, England, nursing a glass of whisky. ![]()
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