Lost in Translation
The lights flash and strobe to the rhythm of the bass guitar, synths whining in minor key, and the dystopian vocals enrapture the crowd whose bodies move with the lights, and the heat. Leather, lace, spiked and colored hair, makeup, and studs. Cigarette smoke filters the oxygen out of the air, and the haze is lit by the multi-colored lights interrupting the darkness. A woman with a dyed red mohawk dances her way across the floor, and toward Dorothy. When she gets there, she speaks up over the din of the music, "Don't look now, but major creepo at 5 o'clock. Noticed him a little while ago, he hasn't moved."
Without turning around, Dorothy answers, "Really? What puts you off about him?"
Near the edge of the dance floor, a man with close cropped hair sits nursing a drink, trying to look natural, and blend in, but unable to hide how obviously out of place he is. He had been watching Dorothy Somerset for at least a half hour.
"I don't know," the bemohawked punk responds, and adds with a serious expression, "bad vibes."
They dance for a while, drifting in and out of dancing with partners, and each other, or by themselves, and eventually a sweaty Dorothy bails and heads to the bar.
"Can I get a water, please?" She asks the bartender. He slides one down to her, and another drink: A whisky sour, one of her favorites.
He gestures with his eyes past her, in the direction of the "creep" sitting at the booth, "Courtesy of tall, dark, and spooky over there. Said he has something to tell you." And then with a bit of a confused look, adds, "Says he knows your dad?"
Dorothy's eyes widen as a knowing takes over her face. She nods without saying anything, and turns around to head to the booth, water in hand, leaving the whisky sour on the bar top. As she approaches this stranger, he is no longer feigning disinterest, he's simply watching her, sizing her up. He waves her over, taking another sip of his own Old Fashioned.
"Didn't want the drink?" He asks, smiling. Dorothy doesn't say anything, she's eying him up as well. Strong, but not a body builder, definitely a jogger if nothing else. Definitely packing heat. Charcoal grey suit and black tie, black brogues. Nothing fancy, just very utilitarian and professional looking; but he doesn't seem to be showing off his wealth, he's working.
"Do I know you?" She asks.
He continues his smile, chuckling a bit, "Sit down, act like you do." Against her better judgement, she listens, and sits across from him. Sounds like a Texan. He leans back on the booth, seeming to relax a bit, and cocks his head to the side. "I know your father."
"So I'm told."
"I work with him," he adds in an almost sinister and serious tone.
"So... you're a pencil pusher too?" She jokes, still eying his lean muscles. His frown drops away a bit. The music continues to blare, and all around punks and goths dance and mingle and make out. The redhead with the mohawk cruises by, behind the guy, giving Dorothy a look that says "Just say the word."
He looks around the room, and then back to her, "I need to ask you some questions." He pulls out a small envelope, the kind you'd receive a bill in. He carefully pulls out two pieces of photo paper, pressing them on the table and sliding them across to her. "Do you recognize this?"
The images are both of some kind of pottery, a broken vase or bowl, half of which remains in shards. One image is a close up of some of those shards, showing intricate symbols etched into the clay. Cuneiform? She thinks, at first, but then looks closer. "I... Where is this from?"
A withholding grin stretches across his lips, and he says, "So you do recognize it."
Dorothy's lips purse, and her eyes narrow a bit, but she replies begrudgingly, "Yeah. Or, I think so anyway. Did you come here just to ask me about pot shards from Portugal?"
The smirk on his face fades, "No..." He produces a small book, bound in dark leather, stained and ruddy, pages yellowed by age and acidity. "I came to ask you if you know the language."
Dorothy takes the book as he offers it, and starts to flip through it. It is filled with those strange symbols, seemingly a cross between Norse Runes, Cuneiform, and Phoenician. She studies the first few pages for a moment in silence, before tall, dark, and spooky closes it with one bear-trap of a fist, and wrenches it back from her. For a second she is apprehensive to let it go. "So you can read it. A mutual colleague of your father's and mine said you might be able to." He slides a thin white business card out from a pocket of his suit jacket, and hands it to her. "Give me a call when you've got some time. And I do mean, some time." And with that, this mysterious man stands, and walks out of the bar, leaving her alone at the booth.