You Think You Know Me?
No-one really knows me, including Camille. My wife, the diplomat’s daughter, erroneously believes I’m something like her successful father. She absorbed the training in her mother’s milk to become the perfect wife and hostess for me. I’m fortunate. And so is she.
We entertain often with an eclectic mix of guests from many levels of society. I’m good in a crowd but I can be unobserved when I choose. Being alone never worries me. I’m a good listener. I carry a glass of tonic water with ice and lemon, and it’s assumed it’s laced with gin, but I rarely touch alcohol. My brain is never clouded by intemperance.
I’m neither too ugly, nor too attractive and I’ve been disparaged as bland. I never look disapproving or angry; never agitated. I’m considered to be no threat to other men and I’m always courteous towards women.
My clothes are neither cheap nor too expensive. In my dress I’m conservative, mostly in grey, beige, and taupe, but nothing that’s obvious. My manners are impeccable.
Neither in my dress nor conduct am I conspicuous. I’ve honed being neutral into an art form which has become second nature. I’d be a good poker player but wouldn’t expose myself to the temptation. My emotions are veiled, and nothing creases my brow.
I’ve been considered apolitical; disinterested in world affairs and unbiased concerning issues of the day. I’m always detached when an argument arises. Those who judge me are fools. And I despise fools.
I travel widely, meeting people who grace the front page of newspapers and the lead stories on the television news. If you know where to look you may glimpse a blurred head turning aside just as the camera clicks. I’m never identified. Espionage is the invisible game and I’m the perfect shadow man.
Burnside Writers Group 