Chapter One. "Is She Beautiful?"
[The Story Thus Far: An Excerpt from near the beginning, in which we are introduced to the Baron, our hero Fred, and catch a glimpse of a Mysterious Young Woman.]
The Baron Z, impossibly old and nearly blind, sat in the Parc de Bruxelles [Warandepark] in Brussels, opposite the Royal Palace on a lovely summer day in 1984. Next to him, a young man in a suit and tie and horn-rimmed glasses tried to make himself comfortable, crosing and uncrossing his legs, folding his hands in his lap, then running a hand nervously through unruly hair that fell across his forehead. The Baron's eyes swiveled somewhat uselessly (so one assumed) back and forth beneath their cloudy egg-white cataracts; he clenched and released liver-spotted talons on the blanket his uniformed attendant (despite the warmth of the day) had placed over his lap, plucking at the gray cashmere like a cat exercising its claws. He leaned his head back in its old-fashioned black bowler and sniffed at the air.
Royal Palace of Brussels, old facade seen from the Park, demolished 1904, replaced by a facade built afterward by King Leopold II.
"You are looking at someone," the Baron announced, giving the words an unsavory quality, and adding, "I can feel it."
The young man, twenty-four years old and American, was suddenly reminded that he was here on busines, ("Fred, you are here on business," he said to himself, despite how unreal the situation felt). He sat up straight and cleared his throat. He decided not to lie.
"Yes," Fred replied and then, forgetting the appropriate courtesy title (it wasn't 'Your Grace' -- that was for Earls or archbishops, and it wasn't 'Your lordship' either), hedged his bets and mumbled an added, "Sir."
The Baron's head bobbed and trembled, which made Fred want to point out that afterall it wasn't that difficult to guess. The Park was not exactly empty of distractions; there were tourists, kids, couples with backpacks, old people -- though none as old as the Baron -- feeding the birds. Plenty to look at.
"Is it a boy, or a girl?" the Baron asked in a raspy croak, somewhere between hiccups and a whisper.
Play along, Fred reasoned. Indulge him. That's what he'd been instructed. The Baron was unspeakably rich with one of the most important collections of modern art still in private hands, not to mention everything else. The Palais Z was a treasure trove, built by the Baron's parents at the turn of the century. Klimt had done the murals for the nursery. That alone was bound to have an effect on a child's development. The Baron had posed as a young boy for Egon Schiele. With prostitutes. Fred had seen the reproductions in the catalogue raissone. Gangrenous, leprous skin tones, a wild-eyed emaciated adolescent in the throes of decadence. No wonder, Fred thought, the old fossil was eccentric. "An extraordinary man," Fred's employer had explained rather generously. "A nasty piece of work," a book dealer (rumored to be a gun-runner as well), had cautioned him.
"A girl," Fred answered.
A tremor of a smile wrinkled the old man's mouth as he tipped his nose up to more fully appreciate the possibilities.
"Is she beautiful?"
"Yes, Baron." Fred nodded, looking over at the young woman he'd been watching near the play of the fountain which sent up rainbow sprays in the filtered sunlight. He wondered if she would think he was talking about her, even though she was too far away. "She's very attractive."
"Describe her to me," the Baron entreated hoarsely.
Fred shifted on the park bench and sighed. He looked back through the trees to where he'd just seen her. She'd been staring at him, he had decided a moment ago. Her arm hooked through that of some boy with curly hair and a knapsack, but as if she were only playing at being someone's girlfriend. As if she were used to being on her own. A man's workshirt with the sleeves rolled up and open at the neck, showing off a tan, daring you to look, the shirt tied at the waist above khaki slacks.
"Brown eyes," Fred began, from memory now, because he realized he seemed to have lost her in the crowd. "Maybe Italian? Tall, with long hair pulled back --"
"Italian," the Baron echoed softly and began rocking slowly back and forth, making an odd rattle sound with his tongue against teeth, a cluck or a cooing, like a pigeon. "More," he hiccupped anxiously. "Tell me more."
The Baron Z, impossibly old and nearly blind, sat in the Parc de Bruxelles [Warandepark] in Brussels, opposite the Royal Palace on a lovely summer day in 1984. Next to him, a young man in a suit and tie and horn-rimmed glasses tried to make himself comfortable, crosing and uncrossing his legs, folding his hands in his lap, then running a hand nervously through unruly hair that fell across his forehead. The Baron's eyes swiveled somewhat uselessly (so one assumed) back and forth beneath their cloudy egg-white cataracts; he clenched and released liver-spotted talons on the blanket his uniformed attendant (despite the warmth of the day) had placed over his lap, plucking at the gray cashmere like a cat exercising its claws. He leaned his head back in its old-fashioned black bowler and sniffed at the air.
Royal Palace of Brussels, old facade seen from the Park, demolished 1904, replaced by a facade built afterward by King Leopold II.
"You are looking at someone," the Baron announced, giving the words an unsavory quality, and adding, "I can feel it."
The young man, twenty-four years old and American, was suddenly reminded that he was here on busines, ("Fred, you are here on business," he said to himself, despite how unreal the situation felt). He sat up straight and cleared his throat. He decided not to lie.
"Yes," Fred replied and then, forgetting the appropriate courtesy title (it wasn't 'Your Grace' -- that was for Earls or archbishops, and it wasn't 'Your lordship' either), hedged his bets and mumbled an added, "Sir."
The Baron's head bobbed and trembled, which made Fred want to point out that afterall it wasn't that difficult to guess. The Park was not exactly empty of distractions; there were tourists, kids, couples with backpacks, old people -- though none as old as the Baron -- feeding the birds. Plenty to look at.
"Is it a boy, or a girl?" the Baron asked in a raspy croak, somewhere between hiccups and a whisper.
Play along, Fred reasoned. Indulge him. That's what he'd been instructed. The Baron was unspeakably rich with one of the most important collections of modern art still in private hands, not to mention everything else. The Palais Z was a treasure trove, built by the Baron's parents at the turn of the century. Klimt had done the murals for the nursery. That alone was bound to have an effect on a child's development. The Baron had posed as a young boy for Egon Schiele. With prostitutes. Fred had seen the reproductions in the catalogue raissone. Gangrenous, leprous skin tones, a wild-eyed emaciated adolescent in the throes of decadence. No wonder, Fred thought, the old fossil was eccentric. "An extraordinary man," Fred's employer had explained rather generously. "A nasty piece of work," a book dealer (rumored to be a gun-runner as well), had cautioned him.
"A girl," Fred answered.
A tremor of a smile wrinkled the old man's mouth as he tipped his nose up to more fully appreciate the possibilities.
"Is she beautiful?"
"Yes, Baron." Fred nodded, looking over at the young woman he'd been watching near the play of the fountain which sent up rainbow sprays in the filtered sunlight. He wondered if she would think he was talking about her, even though she was too far away. "She's very attractive."
"Describe her to me," the Baron entreated hoarsely.
Fred shifted on the park bench and sighed. He looked back through the trees to where he'd just seen her. She'd been staring at him, he had decided a moment ago. Her arm hooked through that of some boy with curly hair and a knapsack, but as if she were only playing at being someone's girlfriend. As if she were used to being on her own. A man's workshirt with the sleeves rolled up and open at the neck, showing off a tan, daring you to look, the shirt tied at the waist above khaki slacks.
"Brown eyes," Fred began, from memory now, because he realized he seemed to have lost her in the crowd. "Maybe Italian? Tall, with long hair pulled back --"
"Italian," the Baron echoed softly and began rocking slowly back and forth, making an odd rattle sound with his tongue against teeth, a cluck or a cooing, like a pigeon. "More," he hiccupped anxiously. "Tell me more."
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