Читать книгу Montesereno - Benjamin W. Farley - Страница 8

With each swerve of the Parkway, the mountains bore Darby higher and higher into their manicured wilderness. Bank after bank of scarlet and yellow hues, hemlocks, pines, and wind-sheared firs swept past the windshield. So too its gray cliffs and rills of laurel. But however grand the landscape, its autumnal glory could not mask the misgivings Darby struggled to quell. What was he getting into? What ever made him think he could pull it off? What if he failed and had to go back? What if there were no “back” to return to? Was it too late to say, No?

He slowed the car to enter a tunnel; then switched on the lights. Darkness rushed over him, swallowing the headlights’ funneled beams, snuffing out all but the faintest glow of the domed cavern’s reflectors. Suddenly, the car swept back into the sunlight. Once again the oaks and maples burst into color.

Ahead, the road opened onto a wide overlook. Darby broke the car’s speed, pulled up beside the shoulder’s stonewall, and stepped out. Everywhere the sun’s rays illumined the panorama with delicate softness, tinting the sky a graceful blue, while daubing the mountaintops umber and gold. Darby cupped his hands about his eyes. To the east in the sunlight’s sheen lay Asheville, less than 25 miles away; while to the west, beneath the sun’s ochre smudge, stretched Waynesville, a distance of 35 miles or more. He glanced at his watch. Dusk would soon be falling. It was time to look for the intersection that crossed the Parkway.

When twenty minutes later Darby arrived at Montesereno’s gates, he placed his car in park and stared down the pebbled driveway at the Villa. Its tall Italian windowpanes shimmered silver in the dusk, bathing the pink façade in a luxuriant light that only evenings create. Its sandstone window ledges and embossed cornices added a mystique of antique elegance. To his left, an edge of the Villa’s slate deck peeked out from behind the mansion’s rear entrance, and, still visible in the evening’s glow, slumbered the Villa’s guest cottage, flanked by its garden of azaleas and ornate flora. Darby drove down to the mansion. After parking, he mounted its worn, semi-circular steps and raised his hand to knock on the Florentine door.

His knuckles hesitated. Old memories rushed forward. Her hands drew him down. Her lips smothered his, wet with kisses. It was the night of their honeymoon, their season of boundless passion. How they had raced through the Villa’s grounds, scattering the crisp and lustrous leaves, sending them afloat in clouds of raspberry-pink and yellow flame to the blush of morning mists and the purple of sunset haze!

It seemed so long ago, and yet was it? He—the ex-priest with a PhD, first in his class and first to be hired; and Julia Laine, his bride—a Medieval archivist, excellent in every way, his equal. It had all unfolded with such promise—the move to Georgia, the University of Oglesbee, with stipends to travel to Berlin, Paris, and Rome. He stared at the door, a casualty of his Socratic quietude, a facet of his personality he knew he would never be able to slough off. He smiled to himself, knocked quietly, and waited.

“Ah, Peterson!” Garnett Nelson greeted him, as he swung the door open. “Thank God you’ve come!” stated the tall, pallid-faced figure. An unkempt head of graying hair matched his sallow complexion. A linen napkin dangled from his white shirt above a gray tie. His swollen milky eyes burned in the hall’s semi-light that emanated from the dining room’s chandelier. “Come in!” he motioned with his hand. “We’ll take your things to the cottage, afterwards.” He turned toward the dining room. “Linda! He’s here! Our own Dr. Peterson!” He struggled to clear his throat, but the guttural rumble remained. Darby knew what it masked. Perhaps they would talk about it later.

Darby peered around the hallway into the lighted room. To his right, a frightened young girl’s eyes caught his; then the anxious glances of an older man, seated opposite her, clad in a tweed jacket, sporting a yellow tie. To his left, sat a surprisingly stylish woman, beautiful to say the least, dressed in a bright blue blouse, wearing a pearl necklace with matching earrings, and, opposite her, a young male, slumped forward in a suede jacket, with dark and jealous eyes. The young man had been touching the woman’s fingertips, clasping them across the table, but looked up uncomfortably when Darby stepped in.

Just then Linda entered the room through a swinging door between the kitchen and dining room. Anorexic in size but energetic and aglow in a pleated green dress of silk, she squeezed her small frame between the chairs and breakfront to hug him. With her brown eyes and cheerful lips, willowy face and short black hair, she drank in his features with overt excitement. “Darby! How wonderful! Garnett’s told us all about it.” She kissed his cheek. In turn, he embraced her about the waist. Still on her tiptoes, she straightened his shirt collar, where it poked up under his maroon sweater. “It is such a right thing to do. Even Jon Paul concurs. Oh, Darby!” she kissed him on his mouth, her eyes radiant with a shameless blush.

“And yourself! Lovely as always! And how is our chef?”

“Unchanged. He’ll be out in a while. Look, we’ve set a plate for you, at the head of the table no less.”

“I believe that’s the opposite end,” Garnett muttered, suppressing a cough. “But tonight, who cares?”

Darby scooted the chair back and took a seat. As tall as Garnett, but with a decidedly muscular frame, a head of white-and-pepper hair, tanned face, and bronzed hands, his appearance easily belied his vocation as an academician. “Well!” he greeted each with a polite nod. “I apologize I’m not in jacket. I’m Darby Peterson. Please don’t believe a word Nelson says.”

“Darby’s our Renaissance man. Our Plato in residence,” Nelson mumbled in his weak voice. “Dr. Peterson’s the retired head of the philosophy department at Oglesbee University, or at least he’s been willing to risk an extended leave, just for us. He’s a PhD from Princeton and as world-traveled as Job’s Satan, if I may add. And, at one point, a Catholic priest,” he feigned a smile.

“Please! That was long ago, and only for two years,” winced Darby, unfolding his napkin as he looked up at Linda. Linda’s lips brushed pleasantly past his left ear. Artfully, she set his pear salad of greens and cottage cheese in front of him.

“Were you a priest?” the young girl asked. “And a professor, too? I’ve never met a professor before. I applied to Charleston’s Ashley-Cooper College, but my writing skills weren’t up to par, or so they said.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but, sad to say, I am a professor, or was. As well as a priest. But that was long ago!” He glanced up at Linda, so fair in the table’s light.

“What happened?” asked the male opposite her. “I thought once a priest always a priest.” The man was just then lifting a glass of white wine to his lips. A shiny drop of condensation slipped down its stem and dripped onto his salad plate. He grasped the stem with his napkin and hunched slightly forward. His tight grey eyes never blinked as he stared at Darby. His narrow and somewhat elongated nose twitched at the tip. He fidgeted with his glass as he awaited Peterson’s reply.

Darby could feel his chest tighten. He wished Garnett hadn’t introduced him so. He hated labels. They changed you into an object instead of a person. “When I was younger, I tended to be reticent, more of an idealist than a people person—even as a priest. But that was thirty-five years ago. It ended when I surrendered my celibacy and married, just before my PhD. What about yourself?”

“Oh! An art dealer of sorts, and dabbler in this and that, you might say.”

“Nonetheless, the best!” Nelson confirmed.

“If I may ask, what’s this reference to Job’s Satan?” the man beside the girl interjected. There was an air of casual challenge about his voice, if not a rigidity concealed behind a visage of uncertainty. Darby could sense it in his eyes, coupled with an undisclosed fear of something that needed to be shared, but which he, obviously, couldn’t. Slender to gaunt, the man brushed a strand of his black hair past his right ear and focused exclusively on Darby. He couldn’t be more than twenty-nine, guessed Darby. He sat with his left leg crossed over his right and rested his chin in his right hand. “I’d like to know,” a slight leer played about the edges of his mouth. “The Catholic Church has always intrigued me with its love for secrecy and whatever else it’s up to.”

“Like what?” Darby reacted. “Pedophilia? Is that what you’re hinting?”

The man’s face filled with embarrassment.

“Hah!” the woman with earrings smiled. “He got you on that one! Dr. Peterson—my husband,” she iterated. “Mr. Martin, no less.”

“Sorry, sir! I apologize,” the man sought to regain what dignity he could. “You go for the jugular, don’t you?”

“Only when I have, too,” Peterson smiled. “Forget it! As for Job’s Satan, he was part of Yahweh’s court in the Bible. Let’s say he operated on the margin of God’s domain, a sort of spoiler. In the Book of Job, he travels to and fro about the earth, giving Yahweh grief whenever he can.”

“Not a bad definition,” smiled the coat-and-tie man, still tweaking his wine glass’s stem. “Incidentally, I’m Tunstan Hughes. And specifically, I’m an art fraud investigator.”

“Now you know why Peterson’s here,” Garnett coughed. “He was thrice recipient of the Excellence in Teaching Award and has authored many books. He’s what we’ve needed for years.”

“I have a question,” Martin’s wife stated. “I’m Celeste, Celeste Martin,” she nodded toward her husband. Still smiling, her short black hair rendered her boyish in appearance, but her eyes sparkled with seductive playfulness as she stared at Darby’s lips. “I’ve always wanted to know the meaning of ‘pluperfect.’ I know that sounds stupid, if not silly, but the word seems so important,” she stared at his brow and face.

“Not much to explain, Mrs. Martin. It’s from the Latin. Means ‘more than perfect.’ It’s a combination of the past tense and the perfect, sometimes called the ‘past perfect.’ Example: ‘I had thought you might ask a question I had heard before.’ I know that’s lame, but that’s it!” Darby could tell that his answer was hardly what Mrs. Martin wanted. No doubt she had hoped for a more intriguing definition.

“I prefer it in expressions,” Hughes scowled. “Like, ‘that artist is a pluperfect ass.’ Or, ‘that woman in Manet’s Bar at the Folie-Bergère represents the pluperfect essence of Parisian life in the 1880s.’”

“Like our pluperfect dreams,” Darby stated.

“Dreams! All I have are nightmares!” the young girl announced. “My name’s Stephanie, Stephanie Gay,” she extended her hand to Darby. “Have you really had pluperfect dreams? Mine are nightmares. I wake up running away from voices, terrifying faces and old houses with ceilings falling in.”

“Mine are quite normal, I guess,” he released the girl’s hand. “But you needn’t be afraid of your dreams, or even your nightmares. According to Jung, dreams are our best friends. They never lie. They bring us compensation at a level too deep for words, and in shapes that emerge strange and unintelligible,” he feigned with a smile. “Perhaps we can talk about it sometime, if you’d like?”

“I’d love that!”

“Well, let’s plan on it. Maybe tomorrow.”

“I must say, I am quite interested in all this banter,” the art investigator remarked. “What was your dissertation on, anyway? Jung? The subconscious? Some modern theory of the self?”

“No! In fact, it embarrasses me to tell you. My doctoral dissertation was entitled: Nietzsche’s Übermensch as Icon and Archetype. It was published in the Journal of Philosophy over a period of three issues. Later, it was published as a monograph. As for the word Übermensch, it’s Nietzsche’s term for what he hoped would become a futurist figure, a person capable of overcoming whatever obstacles and petty judgments others might harbor. Kind of a tough call, I know,” Darby smiled.

“That’s just one book of many,” Nelson added. He stared around the table as Linda brought in the main course: a pot roast in dark gravy, garnished with peas, onions, and tomatoes, along with parsley-sprinkled russet potatoes, grilled spears of asparagus, and a side dish of relishes and pickles.

“Bon appétit,” she pressed Darby’s shoulder with her fingertips as she returned toward the kitchen.

He glanced up at her as she slipped away. Where were his thoughts? Then he turned back to savor the dinner, a feast as fitting for its guests as his fleeting ideas served to fete his philosophic palate.

“Someone please pass the red wine,” coughed Garnett, struggling for breath. “Please help yourself. There’s more in the cellar.”

“I’m an MBA,” stated Parker. “I really am sorry for my inappropriate jibe,” he acknowledged, his face still flushed pale red. “Celeste here’s into marketing. I do have a question, however. Is it true that we all have a philosophy of some sort? If I’ve got one, I sure as hell,” he paused, glancing toward Stephanie, “don’t know it. I try to be ethical, but in the bond market, that’s damn near impossible.”

Darby eyed Parker with a thoughtful smile. “Technically, we’re not all philosophers, if you mean that in the critical sense. You know, Socrates was put to death for chiding his fellow Athenians. He accused them of ignoring what was best for the self, and for caring nothing about honor and virtue. His favorite ‘jibe’ was: ‘the unexamined life is unworthy of a person.’ Most of us are content to bump along. But you did say, ‘ethical’?”

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Parker replied. “I live off commissions. That means I have to hustle and spin bonds and stocks in my favor. It doesn’t needle most consciences.”

“That’s why I’m into marketing and public relations,” Celeste said as she nudged off a piece of roast with her fork. Her lips hung partially open as she studied Darby. “Besides, why can’t you just enjoy life as it is? Why have to examine everything, or keep looking for meanings that aren’t there? Like honor and virtue? Why not enjoy life as it comes along, day-by-day? I find all this nonsense about a ‘purpose-driven life’ obnoxious. Don’t you?”

Before Darby could answer, Tunstan stopped eating and placed his fork along the edge of his plate. He glanced about, clicked his neck from side to side, and loosened his tie. “If we’re into confessions, I might as well share mine. That’s why I’m here! I botched a major project as an art sleuth. I was confident the piece was a forgery. It didn’t look anything like the canvas I had seen in Vienna, though there were telltale brush strokes and light touches that looked familiar. The Vienna Museum of Fine Arts listed it as missing. There it was in front of me! But I was cocksure it was a fake. A masterpiece, yes, but a fake! So I announced my findings, the house holding it put it up for auction, and it sold for under $2,000. Then the buyer took it to Sotheby’s. Their people pored over every detail. And, you guessed it! They judged it to be authentic. Worth $13 million! I was shocked. Vienna demanded it back. To save the auction house embarrassment, I resigned. I’ve been in flight ever since. And that was eighteen months ago. So what do I do now? I couldn’t get a job as a curator of the least significant museum in America.” He grasped his wine glass in both hands before taking another sip. “Oh, well! So much for aesthetics. It’s back to the rag shop, for certain.”

Darby stared at the man. “History records that during the fall of Rome, Aristotle’s dialogues were consumed in the flames. We don’t know the name of the curator in charge of their safety. Or whether he escaped the sword, or fled to Africa as so many did. But if he fled, who’d have the right to condemn him? Why not reintroduce yourself by letter to the houses you represented, or to new ones that possibly aren’t so famous?”

“Sure! Just like that!” Hughes arched his eyebrows. “No wonder your types are accused of dwelling up in the clouds; no offense.”

Darby dropped his voice. He could see his students before him. How they twisted their pens and counted his steps as he paced back and forth. “I hate to think of how many students I let down until I learned what real teaching requires. It took time to learn that teaching ideas is one thing, but teaching kids, another. I had to stare into their faces and eyes. I had to coax them to ask questions, goad them in the very midst of my lectures. That’s the truth, Mr. Hughes!”

Everyone sat silently, even Tunstan. “Perhaps we can talk some. What I do is incredibly technical, as intuitive as it is scientific.”

After dessert and coffee, Nelson signaled for Darby to accompany him to the office. “You will excuse us,” Nelson said. “The professor and I have a few things to cover before I depart in the morning. I’ll be heading first to Atlanta, then to Oklahoma, and hopefully back here by the Holidays. It’s been my pleasure to dine with you tonight. Perhaps, we shall see one another again, and soon at that,” he surmised. Once more he suppressed a cough, before turning with a slight bow.

Both Hughes and Martin stood. If they knew the reason of Nelson’s departure, neither voiced it.

“We shall miss you,” Hughes uttered. “I’ll be leaving myself after the weekend. It’s been very pleasant. I’m glad the professor came at your summons. I’m looking forward to a few days of chat with him,” he glanced toward Darby, then back at Nelson.

Nelson nodded and bowed again, this time toward Celeste and Stephanie. “I’m honored that you chose Montesereno. Santé to each of you! I’ll be gone before breakfast. Good night, ladies! Enjoy the living room and fireplace. Again, good night!”

“Good night, to you, too,” Parker shook his hand. “We love coming here and look forward to returning.”

Darby noticed Celeste’s eyes as she looked up at him. Her glance was quite transparent. Darby lowered his face and followed Nelson into the hallway, past its winding staircase, and into Garnett’s study. Portraits of Garnett’s parents and grandfather hung in large gilded frames suspended on wires from the ceiling’s high molding. Bookcases, lamps, a leather sofa, and three black-lacquered captain’s chairs encircled Garnett’s mahogany desk.

“Let’s crash here,” Nelson said as they approached the sofa. “You’ll be staying in your favorite quarters, the petit cottage. The rooms are ready—all two of them. Plus wood by the fireplace. Everything you need.”

“I can’t thank you enough. Montesereno’s just what I need,” Darby replied, repressing his uneasiness with a smile.

“By the way, I know this is personal, but whatever happened between you and Julia Laine? You two seemed so perfect. I know I should stay out.”

“No, no! Not at all! I’ve hidden a lot of it, even from myself.” He stared thoughtfully at Garnett. “She wanted children but couldn’t conceive. I was buried in my work, up to my neck in lectures and writing. She too was busy but needed more. She needed me home, wanted me home, and wanted to travel.” Darby looked away from his host, then back. “She was needy in a way I couldn’t fulfill. She got the house, then sold it and slipped off with a millionaire sportsman. I was angry, bitter at first, but it was for the best. No point in fighting the inevitable. They live in New Mexico, near Taos. I’ve been there. It’s beautiful. Yes, it took time to get over it,” he glanced down, then back at Nelson. “And I did love her! I truly did! Still, I welcome your invitation to be here. I was prepared to teach longer and may go back, but Montesereno is what I need; at least just now.”

“Well, enjoy it. I know our clients and guests will enjoy you. Plus, you don’t have to worry about a thing. Linda and Jon Paul manage the Inn. They’re responsible for registering the guests, providing whatever they need, plus keeping a list of drugs or prescriptions they bring. The law requires that. We rarely take alcoholics anymore, but a few show up. We’re not equipped to be a detoxification center, either, but some come just the same. Leave them to Jon Paul. We’ve a cabinet stocked with bourbon and scotch and plenty of club soda. When my father ran the Villa, he hired a physician to dispense anti-depressants. But we’ve dropped that service. Now we focus on providing rest and a change of venue. For alcoholics, we do offer cold showers and wet towels,” Garnett coughed, paused and wiped his face with a handkerchief. He placed it back in his jacket’s pocket and stared at Darby.

“Most of our clients today,” he continued, “are upscale, mainly suffering from depression. Which leads me to warn you about Stephanie.” He retrieved his handkerchief and wiped his lips. “Her grandmother brought her. She’s been here two weeks. The child’s suicidal, her grandmother claims, though I’ve not seen it. She stays mainly to herself. Her father and mother used to come here, years ago. But that’s another story,” he said with a cheerless glance and sadness in his voice. “The girl’s on Xanax, which Linda makes sure she takes. You do know that Linda used to be a Licensed Practical Nurse. As for the girl, she’s scheduled to go home Sunday but wants to stay longer. I wish I knew how to help her. Maybe you’ll figure something out. She likes you. I saw it in her eyes the moment you walked in. As for Hughes, he’s just in a state of self-pity. He takes long walks and likes to sit in the Garden. He’ll be a pest I fear. As for the couple, they’re a mystery. They’re not on anything. They’ve been here a week. Real distanced from each other when they arrived—moody, impish, wanting sex, but aloof and secretive. God only knows what problems they’ve brought. Maybe you’ll get them to talk. That’s about it.” Suddenly Garnett leaned forward; sweat beads popped out on his brow, and he struggled to catch his breath. “Damn!” he groaned. “I can hardly breathe.”

“What is it? I have a right to know, you know. Throat cancer? Is that what it is? Lung cancer? Emphysema? Or something worse?”

“No. Throat cancer. And there’s nothing worse. That’s it. My doctor in Atlanta’s scheduled tests for me at a Mayo clinic out west. That’s where he completed his residency.” There were tears in Garnett’s eyes as he fought for his breath. “He thinks transoral laser microsurgery is what I need. That’s less invasive than the traditional jaw-breaking, disfigurement process. You know, where they slice your neck open and rip out your thorax and voice box, gutting you like a fish. I’m not looking forward to it, I assure you,” he swallowed, choking on his own phlegm. “You’d best get on to your cottage. I’ll see you in the morning before I leave.”

“Sure! In the morning!” Darby repeated as he rose and laid his hand on Garnett’s shoulder. “See you then. You’ll have to write.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Garnett fought to regain his breath. “We don’t receive mail delivery here. Jon Paul picks it up twice a week at the post office in West Asheville. We’ve a box there. In case you ever need to go down, the key’s in the drawer here,” he pointed toward the desk. “Top drawer on the right. The box number’s on the string. There’s a business credit card next to it. You’ll need that, too.”

“I’ll remember, thanks. Till the morning. Good night!”