CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AFdCB & BvdH
Recuperation at Tumultuous Manor was, as always, a pleasantly efficacious progression. Attended to by my devoted staff -- Mrs. Potsdam and her teakettle ever full of English Breakfast, Mia's orderly trafficking of communication with the outside world, and the unswerving delivery of the morning paper each day at half-six by Smudgely -- the healing process was delightfully restorative to both the battered mind as well as the bruised body.
The gash on my forehead closed suitably, leaving a scent of a scar, while the stinging bullet wound to my arm was deemed nothing more than superficial, prompting a doff of the porkpie to those who experienced the more serious bite of a fired projectile.
As for the general aches and pains acquired motorbiking in Peru, entertaining on the Gangrene, serving as a fruit target in Acapulco, being throttled by a Hollywood director, meeting the train platform in Morocco and golfing in Tunis -- they all faded away at various points during the placid weeks of July and August. Indeed, the single most excruciating injury was the lingering memory of my swim in Joe Kose's pool.
Details of the case continued to arrive on my writing desk over the course of the summer mornings, giving occasion to update my notes and satisfy my curiosity regarding the fate of those involved. Also received was a generous check -- well-earned -- from Sondheim for services rendered. As was his custom, he included an elegant pen set engraved with my monogram and a nominal gift certificate redeemable in the deli department at Shadrack's Market.
I appreciated Sondheim's patronage and goodwill toward my global consulting livelihood, as well as his consistent application of employing themes when churning out unique nicknames. Yet my feelings toward him remained ambivalent and tentative as always, i.e., an associate best kept at arm's length. He was a shadow-caster in the land of gray uncertainties, a man who believed himself omnipotent when orchestrating international intrigue. This was a dangerous impression to mantle oneself with and one I bore in mind by placing my good health before all else.
In the Bridgework case, I came away with the sense Sondheim had colluded with Ethelene and, frankly, I felt shortchanged by their covert connection. When pressed for an answer about their relationship, Sondheim denied Ethelene-as-mole being a plausible theory. Indeed, he encouraged me not to spend much time thinking about it. He remained steadfast in his support for the newly-minted widow and, despite her clear ties to Chip/Silly, he was successful in lobbying to have her exonerated from prosecution. Nothing was ever quite what it seemed with Sondheim, but he did prove a reliable sport when processing my bill on a timely basis.
Added to my invoice for this venture was the authorization to pay-in-full Kurwenal the Angry Squid's tuition bill at Cornell. In addition, Jack's youth soccer league received twenty-eight pairs of hockey skates and fifty-six Boston Bruin shirts of various sizes. I also found an excellent maintenance and care manual for Indian motorcycles on eBay, which I sent along to him as a personal gift. When traveling to the Acapulco area in the future, I look forward to sharing the fisherman's warm hospitality once more.
Angel was in a generous mood, as well. She maintained regular telephone contact with me since our initial viewing of the Mamonet and, happily enough, had taken firm control over both her personal life and the Woolamaloo Gang Hedge Fund in the face of the massive family tragedy. After ensuring I received the best medical care, she followed through by providing safe travel back to the States aboard her private jet, a cosmic difference from my Slipstream Green experiences. Angel arranged for her father's cremation and the dispersal of his ashes, ironically, into the anonymous depths of the Mediterranean. Perhaps a portion of Wayland will come into contact with the Tunis flash drive someday after all.
Chip/Silly, however, would never touch an electronic device again in his lifetime. The National Police snapped up the flaky pedaler of eternity at the art studio, plugged his bleeding and whisked him directly to a secure lockup. He was high-profile, certainly, and held aloft like a trophy to the international community, an icon of capitalistic greed surrounded by the supreme measurers of social justice and responsibility. In the weeks following his apprehension it was apparent Chip/Silly would be denied any type of Napoleonic exile. Instead, the now openly angry young man spent the balance of his days shuttling between various criminal courtrooms and confinement in what could be imagined as a less than cozy cell. His trial, sentencing and appeals would unfold over many years and several countries, but little would change his plight of perpetual existence behind bars. Suffice it to say, he would never play badminton under the warm Jamaican sun again. Perhaps that was punishment enough.
As much as I fought the urge, I could not help but shed a bit of pity on Ethelene. Her stormy marriages with Wayland aside, hideous rumors surfaced in the press it was she who personally selected and groomed Chip/Silly for the role of Angel's husband. The handpicking of a lover guised as her son-in-law was all the media needed to topple Ethelene from her exalted perch as international benefactress. Naturally, they set her back atop her pillar as often as necessary -- her story possessed too much meat for just one serving. The authorities held her for a brief period before releasing her on undefined "conditions". Ethelene promptly boarded the first flight back to Montreal, as I had once suggested she do. With the exception of gossip journalists and hyper-vigilant paparazzi, interest in her whereabouts quickly fizzled. I saw a few photos of her on internet news sites, wearing sunglasses and hair scarves while making feeble attempts to escape her electronic pursuers. It was the worst sentence Ethelene could ever receive: Relegation to C-list celebratory status where achieving a level of recognizable indifference was considered social accomplishment.
The one person whose location I held an interest in was nowhere to be seen. I suspected Oz Moeziz remained in Paris, the city of his preference, where among other activities he plotted to engage me in a future tournament of wills. I was also convinced he would form an association with the now-unemployed Jan Brat sooner than later. One sunny morning not long after my return to the Manor, Dawn the Fed Ex girl arrived with a modest size package originating from the City of Light. In it was a large framed black-and-white photo taken of me astride a Hodaka on a mountainside in Peru, surrounded by a gang of surly looking thugs -- the very picture Moeziz snapped from the tourist train. Smudgely was instructed to hang the image in the first floor atrium, where it yet serves as a subtle reminder that each day is a fleeting gift not to be wasted. At some point I hope to thank Oz Moeziz personally for his thoughtfulness of this gift, the bastard.
April Après never left Los Angeles and, indeed, ended up landing a small part [uncredited] in the Kose production The Quadruple Svengali. Given enough time and many phone calls, Mia was able to track down Antoine in Ocho Rios who kindly forwarded a batch of his medicinal leaves to my attention at Tumultuous Manor. With huge assistance from Angel [funding], Stinky [customs-related paperwork and bureaucratic red tape cutting] and Bollocks, Bonk & Minge [licensing rights], Kamir and Khalid's NFL gandora business bolted out of the gate, sweeping the nation with a frenzy of infomercials paying tribute to wearing the attire while visiting the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field. I would be afforded a hero's welcome during future visits to Casablanca.
My thank-you note to Pershing Cantilever and his circus was mailed to their itinerant address in mainland China. The Carnaval Du Diminutif had landed an impressive and lucrative five-week tour, proving exceedingly popular with both metro and rural folk. Their prolonged stay in the land of sundry dynasties was a boon to the troupe's hands-on research-and-development use of indoor pyrotechnics. Several fireworks companies insisted on donating experimental and unproven products, much to the delight and surprise of the performers and audiences alike. I hoped to meet up with my new friends when their tour reached the Maritimes in mid-autumn.
An early evening phone call brought good news from Pat Aundybach. Despite the residual pain of healing enveloping his foot wound, he placed seventh in the Wicklow Dart Tournament and third in
the Guinness Trials that followed. His disappointing finish in the latter did not deter him from immediately signing up for the Tipperary Tipper Toss, from which he promised to send me a member's T-shirt. I look forward, as always, to a full night of pub crawling with him on his home turf.
A visit from the Goofy Whites and the return of the now-running Hodaka boosted my spirits equal to that of a week's worth of rehabilitation. Goofy Eddy enjoyed working on the vintage transport and had performed a magnificent job in matching the original shade of red when painting it. One of my daily customs involved hobbling to the far end of the garage just before Mrs. Potsdam served lunch. There I would rest against a yard tractor and admire the motorbike, dreaming of the day when I would take her out over the property trail system once again.
Initially delayed as I was in a Parisian hospital, I missed the reunion of Stinky and Conestoga at Logan Airport. Rumor eventually filtered back to me that the Kornblatts made it as far as the first vacant seats at a bar in Terminal Five. Quite inebriated by closing time, TSA employees gladly assisted the couple to a nearby Westin where they were not heard from for three days. Weeks later, the couple motored north to spend time with me at Tumultuous Manor, surprised and encouraged to see me operating the riding lawnmower upon their arrival in late July. The absence of Froggy -- impaneled indefinitely on a grand jury in New York state -- allowed us a civilized visit highlighted by Conestoga's spotting a pair of bald eagles on the east side of the old apple orchard.
Smudgely and Mia possessed the good sense to keep their romance from the view of everyone except Mrs. Potsdam. The caring but excitable cook, seemingly taking it all in stride, privately offered me the occasional update on the Manor's affaire de coeur. Not one to gossip, Mrs. P would approach me in the scullery whilst I fetched a tea mug and assure me, using her unassuming maternal deportment, the situation worked out best for all involved. Especially me.
I was not so certain I readily agreed with her.
Yet time, physical therapy and the work of the summer months proved enough of a distraction that the sting of a missed romantic opportunity quickly vanished. In addition to gardening and general yardtending, I reconstructed the old gazebo near the headwater of the brook with help from Stinky, replacing the dilapidated railing and screens before giving the roof a much-needed patching. Joe Kose finally forwarded his first draft of Simpatico of the Circus for my review, hence my desire to finish repairs on the gazebo and establish a spot of peaceful solitude where I could study the screenplay and work on my book manuscript. The most pressing concern, of course, was King to Rook's Three: The True Story of Chessmen John Barrymore and Basil Rathbone.
Agnes deMaelstrom began visiting the Manor in early August, meeting me at the gazebo midmorning for a series intense rehearsals. We discussed blocking, motivation, lighting, costuming, set design and other intricacies inherent in staging a one-man/two-character production. Agnes provided a wonderful solution for projecting the chess match onto an oversized beige backcloth, enlarging it to a degree so the entire audience could follow the contest as it unfolded. Finally, minor revisions were made to her solid writing, leaving us both comfortable with the rapid approach of opening night in early September.
In her wisdom, which at first I did not comprehend, Agnes decided the performance would be held for one night only. Tickets were priced at exclusionary levels, while the production would be professionally filmed, with a goodly amount of DVDs donated to New Hampshire Public Television for use as gift giveaways during the station's fund drives. This type of innovative generosity would raise the status of the PHART group throughout the New England region. Wholeheartedly agreeing with her and without a scintilla of objection, I signed the release.
Keyed up for the demands of the roles and the challenge in bringing the spirits of these talented gentlemen to larger-than-life proportions on the floorboards of the Faithful Hill Arts Recital Theatre, I immersed myself in the production. I exuded Barrymore in the morning and Rathbone in the afternoon. Barrymore reappeared in the evenings, often bickering with Rathbone in the library. The entire Manor became my stage and the staff, entranced by the reincarnation of two stage legends, stood aside as taut round-the-clock drama swept through the household.
Most importantly, however, I much looked forward to spending time with the special guest I invited to sit in the front row. It was with great anticipation I desired her to witness the artistic augury I would cast upon the stage.