Читать книгу Montesereno - Benjamin W. Farley - Страница 12

Evening came quickly. In what seemed like only seconds, the sun’s warm rays turned into a pale soft pink, before sinking into a blur of iridescent purple. Instantly the air became cold. Darby entered the palazzo and made his way to the dining room.

“Well! Well! Here’s our host! He did make it!” Tunstan exclaimed as he raised his wine glass to hail Darby’s entrance. “We were wondering where you were.”

“No place in particular. Just enjoying the fire and the cottage’s warmth.”

“I can’t believe you weren’t doing something,” Stephanie commented. “All those books! I bet you were reading something.”

“I’d be embarrassed to tell you,” Darby smiled. He took his seat at the head of the table and unfolded his napkin politely. “How’s everyone doing? You know, when I was studying group dynamics as a priest, we were discouraged from asking anything personal. Like: ‘How are you?’ Or ‘What are your thoughts?’ Instead, we were instructed to ask: ‘Well, how’s it going?’ leaving the person to define it. Frankly, I found that impersonal. You’re either fine or not, happy or sad, reflective or garrulous. So, I trust everyone did have a decent day, however miserable it might have been.”

Parker smiled. “I took a jog in the afternoon. Even coaxed Celeste to go with me,” he turned sheepishly toward her.

She looked up hesitantly toward Darby, smiled; then glanced away. He focused on her mouth, her lips—how tightly she pursed them—before he too glanced at the others.

“I saw that!” Tunstan quipped as he observed their interaction. “I once had a paramour. Paid for her studio. Taught her how to paint, to blend pigments and create shadows. She was young,” he said haltingly, glancing toward Stephanie. “She went on to higher and bigger and better things, then dropped it all to marry a Spanish bull breeder. Imagine that? A toreador’s consort! I wish I knew where she was. Her husband’s ranch was somewhere between El Greco’s Toledo and Velazquez’s Madrid. Maybe one day she’ll resurface and take up the brush again.” His lips parted unable to disguise his disappointment. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Do I dare ask about you?” he confronted Darby.

“Ask all you wish. But some things aren’t divulge-able! I know that isn’t a word, but that’s the case.”

Celeste, who was seated to Darby’s right, laid her fork beside her salad plate and stared directly into Darby’s eyes. “Come, Professor Peterson! Even philosophers stumble from time to time. Bertrand Russell, anyone? Or Sartre or Abelard? No?” she smiled in a deliberate challenge. “You don’t strike me as being a ‘mouse of the scrolls.’”

“Mrs. Martin, I’ve made my mistakes, many of them, I assure you. But life goes on, even for us mortals,” he replied with a pleasant smile.

She drew her face back slightly, placed her napkin against the edge of her lips, and touched his forearm with her left hand. “That’s what fascinates me—the going-on part. Us mortals!” she repeated his words. “Here we are, for whatever reasons we’ve come, and none of us knows each other’s secrets, nor needs to. But I wish I knew what I wanted out of life. That always seems to evade me. You’re supposed to have the answer, aren’t you? Or at least an idea? Isn’t that what philosophy’s about?”

“My science teacher says it’s dead!” Stephanie piped up. “Philosophers don’t have answers, least not important ones. Only science can provide them. Or so he says. No offense, sir!” she smiled at Darby with imploring eyes.

“None taken, my dear! In part he’s right, you know. Ideally, philosophy’s task is to make us critical of the unexamined answers we end up settling for.” He lowered his voice momentarily. “In truth, it can’t give us the answers we need. It can only encourage us be honest with ourselves. To what Heidegger calls, the search for ‘an authentic existence.’ I don’t think the search ever ends. If there were some one purpose, above all purposes, that we’re to live by, wouldn’t we have discovered it by now? It’s just that at various stages some purposes make more sense than others, and later we exchange those for others.”

“I don’t know what I want,” said Stephanie. “I just want my life to be happy! I wish my father would come back, wherever he is. I wouldn’t even care where he’s been. I just want him home.”

“I’d say that’s pretty sensible!” remarked Tunstan. “I’m still searching, too.”

“Good Heavens!” Linda moaned, as she entered the dining room. In one hand she carried a platter of braised chicken, and in the other a tray of yellow rice and broccoli. “You all look morbid. Darby, you’re supposed to enliven our guests, not turn them into zombies.”

Everyone laughed.

“I’d say he’s doing a good job,” Parker announced. “I hope were having apple pie for dessert. I’ve been smelling it all afternoon.”

“That’s right. Our own Stephanie picked them,” she smiled at the girl, “plus the philosopher here,” she nudged Darby’s right shoulder with her left hip.

“Well, here’s a story for you,” Darby smiled with a fey sigh, “if that’s what you want. Maybe it’ll make all of us misérables happy. I forget the source—perhaps Durant—but once upon a time there was a philosopher who lived in the Duchy of Luxembourg, back in the era of Napoleon. He wrote philosophy books, all of which he dedicated to the Prince. One day the Prince called him into his study and demanded to know why the court’s critic constantly found fault with the philosopher’s works. ‘Doesn’t that make me look bad?’ questioned the Prince, ‘since they’re dedicated to me?’ ‘Well, your Excellence, you have to look at it this way,’ replied the philosopher. ‘A book is like a mirror. If an ass looks in, don’t expect to hear an angel sing.’”

“Now that’s more like it,” chuckled Linda. “The next time Jon Paul’s shaving, I’ll ask him if he’s ever seen an angel.”

“Well, wait till we’ve had our pie,” said Parker. “Then we can all look in the mirror.”

“Speak for yourself!” sighed Celeste, as she glanced, eyes down, toward Darby.

* * *

Following dinner, the guests migrated to the living room. Stephanie wandered over to a CD player and began sorting through a stack of CDs. She found several she liked and placed them in the player’s tray. Soon her selections filled the room with their hip-hop and light-rock sounds. Tunstan appeared a bit annoyed, until “Soul Sister” came on. Its spirited melody and hypnotic lyrics opened something deep of long ago in his being. He rose from the chair, in which he had slumped, and took Stephanie’s left hand. “May I have this dance?” he bowed.

“Of course!” the girl replied, as she rolled her eyes toward Darby. “I’d love to.”

Quickly Parker turned toward Celeste, where she was standing by the fireplace, and took her hands. “You know we haven’t in a long time,” he said. He drew her hungrily against his chest and began to move to the beat of the music. Her body submitted to his tug. Her feet stepped gracefully to the CD’s rhythm. Darby watched with envy.

About that time, Linda entered the room. He held his hands out to her. “Will Jon Paul mind?”

“Don’t think about it,” she smiled. “He’s a fabulous cook, but two feet in reverse on the dance floor.” She glanced up at Darby. “Hold me, Darby. Just hold me, that’s all,” she whispered.

More discs were placed in the player: shag, rock-n-roll, tunes from the 70s and 80s. Darby continued dancing with Linda, then Stephanie, and finally Celeste. He knew Parker’s eyes scrutinized their every gesture, glance, and movement.

“I guess he told you everything,” she looked up into Darby’s eyes. Her intense gray pupils bore into his manhood. It was as if they were inviting him to, to . . . he dismissed the thought. His chest rose and fell with silent pleasure. “He told me he talked with you earlier,” she whispered softly.

“I listened.”

“I bet you did!”

Darby didn’t answer.

“He didn’t tell you why. Did he? Why I came back?”

“Not really.”

“I loved it. I couldn’t get enough. But I was slipping, slipping into something I couldn’t control.” She leaned out, pulling away from him slightly, before placing her hot cheek against his shoulder. “He’s watching. I can feel it. I’ll have to go to him. I was becoming a whore and loving every moment of it with any and every man. I knew I had to stop.” Tears formed in her eyes. “Something died in me that night. I just stood there in the shower as it died. I don’t know what it was or if it’ll ever come back. I just knew I had to stop.” She brushed her eyelashes with the back of her fingertips, smiled, and slid away toward her husband.

Parker opened his arms and clasped them about her waist. He looked silently toward Darby. Darby couldn’t discern what the man’s thoughts were or even imagine his feelings.

As he turned to leave through the French doors he felt a nudge at his elbow. Tunstan was struggling into a leather jacket and adjusting his tan beret. “May I exit with you?” he clasped Darby’s arm. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow. I want to show you something. I want you to take it.” He bowed his head, almost ushering Darby along.

Outside, Darby followed the now dour-faced art investigator toward a Mercedes, parked alongside Parker and Celeste’s Lexus. Hughes fumbled in his jacket’s pocket, found his keys and unlocked the passenger’s side front door. He opened the glove compartment, hesitated momentarily, then handed Darby a small handgun—a 9 mm, semi-automatic Beretta. “Here! Take it!” he glanced up at Darby with remorse in his voice. “I was going to use it. What the hell! You might need it some day. It’s registered, but no one will know.”

Darby examined the gun carefully before slipping it into his pocket.

“I need to get on back to Philly, visit some relatives there, and return to Boston. I want to get started again on the only thing I love.” He hesitated; then clicked his keypad, as his trunk door snapped open and rose upward. He smiled. “A little something for Stephanie before I depart. I plan to give it to her in the morning.”

Darby stared into the trunk. There lay a watercolor of Montesereno’s villa. Tunstan had captured its Italian beige and golden-pink hues, its ornate door and iron grillwork with a whimsical flair all its own. Nor had he left out the Villa’s spacious grounds, pebbled approach, sprawling lawn, and ancient oaks.

“Take it to your cottage,” stated Tunstan. “It needs to dry more. We’ll both present it to her tomorrow, at breakfast, or whenever she gets up.”

Darby lifted the canvas with extreme caution so as not to smear a single brush stroke.

“Maybe it’ll inspire her to paint one day. She’s a sweet kid. If I could afford to stay longer, I’d teach her how to paint. I need to get back. There’s an art show coming up, and I need to be seen again. Art dealers will be there from all over. Wish you could come yourself.”

“I, too.”

“Maybe I’ll paint you one day. I rarely, if ever, forget a face. ‘The Professor’s Cottage!’ Or maybe better ‘The Chaplain’s Garden.’ I can see it now.” He waved his right hand in a majestic arc. “The ginkgo tree; the petit maison; the garden, and, voilà, yourself, seated in contemplation beside the laurel!”

“Sounds rather cruel to mar nature so. Maybe you’d better stick with still life or poring over lacquered layers of brush strokes and fingerprints.”

Tunstan shut the trunk door with a loud thump. “In the morning,” he said. “Besides, I think someone else wants to see you,” he nodded toward the house.

Darby looked back. Celeste stood in the door light, cloaked in a fur coat that covered her slender shoulders down to her ankles. She clutched the collar of the fur, enwrapping herself in its shiny sheen, and stepped down.

“Goodnight!” whispered Tunstan. “Get that painting in the cottage.” He tipped his beret to Celeste and returned indoors.

“I’m glad he’s gone!” Celeste said. “Has Parker come out?”

“No! Not that I can see.” Darby leaned the painting against Tunstan’s car. “I’ve got to get this painting inside. Did you want to talk?” he asked, lamely. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples. He didn’t want his stay at Montesereno to begin like this, or end this way, either.

“I need more than talk.” She reached for his hands, clasped them, and clenched her fingers about his. “At least, let’s walk.” She put her forearm under his coat’s left sleeve and began walking slowly toward the Garden. “Sometimes, I never talked with them, you know. We just undressed, ran our hands over each other’s genitalia and had sex. Often with multiple partners. Sometimes we used cuffs. They’d pull my hair back and choke me.” She looked away; then raised her face searchingly toward Darby. “I miss it. God, but I do. As for Parker, he’s like a deer in the headlights. He knew what I was doing. He wanted me, too. He wanted to watch. Yes! Watch! He didn’t tell you that, did he?” she stopped, before lifting her eyes to stare into Peterson’s. “Well, he did! I took him once. He wanted to go back. He made me feel more like a whore than the others. That’s right. They just wanted sex, their libidos fulfilled. Parker wanted humiliation.” She pulled Darby along, slowly, while all the while clutching his arm. Her hands were trembling. “I don’t think our marriage can survive. We’re too far-gone. He wants me now only out of carnality, out of anger. Maybe love. I don’t know,” she choked on her words. “I don’t like what I’ve become. But I crave it! I want you to take me. He’ll never know. He won’t care, anyway. He just needs me because his job’s in jeopardy. Come!” she pulled on his hands, on his arms. She climbed on her tiptoes to kiss him.

Just then car lights loomed into view. A dark limousine entered the Villa’s gates and approached the house. The two stood there, looking up past the corner of the Inn, hand in hand, and watched as a second vehicle, a black Crown Victoria, swung in behind the first. The cars pulled up under the lamplights in front of the house. Five men got out, three from the limousine and two from the black Ford. They ascended the front stoop, knocked, and appeared to enter. Darby could hear the door close.

“They’re either state police or politicians,” said Darby. “They love riding around in Crown Victorias!”

“Maybe they’re celebrities!”

Moments later, the French doors opened and Parker stepped out into the cold. The light of the living room cast his silhouette large and bituminous against the velvet dark, illuminating the patio’s plants and tall urns. “Celeste! Please come in! We’ve been asked to remain quietly in the living room. Jon Paul said he’d explain in the morning. We’re not to ask questions. Please, Celeste, come in! That goes for you, too, Professor.”

Celeste gave Darby a quick glance, released his hand, and hurried toward her husband. Parker glared at Peterson but said nothing. He held the large doors open for his wife. He closed them as she entered.

Darby quickly returned to Tunstan’s car to retrieve the painting. Just as he unlocked the cottage’s latch, the backdoor to Garnett’s office opened and Jon Paul stepped out. “Peterson! We need you in here. Please!”