Part 16 (1/2)
”It is not a done deal, Professor Brauer. The university in general and Mr. Morin in particular have no say whatsoever regarding the premises of this museum. But it doesn't surprise me that he has been less than straightforward with you. He has always had a tendency to tell people what he wants them to hear regardless of the truth.”
”Did you ask me in here just to tell me that?” His expression was decidedly baleful.
”If I had, you could take it as an act of courtesy.”
His frown turned to puzzlement. ”Then what did you ask me here for?”
I cleared my throat. ”I'm willing to consider some very restricted use of the museum for the film in return for some information.”
”What information?”
”I want to know who, in the Long Pig Society, funded Corny's trip to the headwaters of the Rio Sangre.”
He did something of a double take. He had the expression of one suddenly thinking quite deeply about something. ”Well, that's privileged information.”
”I understand. And these are privileged premises. And as you know, I have very good relations with the Seaboard Police Department. I'm quite sure I could arrange to keep your crews from getting anywhere near the place.”
He sighed. ”If I do tell you, it's strictly, strictly confidential.”
”Of course.”
”I want to be able to use the Skull Collection.”
”Okay.”
”And the Oceanic exhibit.”
”With restrictions.”
”Understood. And outside shots, doors and one or two window shots.”
”Within a period of no more than...”
”Say three weeks.”
”Two and a half.”
”Done. You'll get a call from Mr. Castor.”
”Yes. I've spoken to him before. And now...”
”Yes. You know this is in absolute confidence.”
”Understood.”
”For your protection as much as anyone else's.”
”I understand.”
”Most of the funding came from Freddie Bain.”
”Freddie Bain,” I said. ”The restaurateur?”
”Yes. Among other things, the proprietor of the Green Sherpa.”
”Yes. Of course. He makes quite an impression. When did he join the club?”
”Not long after the trial. Of the Snyders brothers. He's quite a man about town, if you didn't know.”
”I didn't. Are his interests in matters anthropophagic purely scholarly?”
”I'm not sure. He's the kind of person who talks but doesn't say much.”
We left it at that. I felt I had learned something valuable, but I wasn't sure what. I also remained under the distinct impression that Raul Brauer was holding something back. What else did he know about Freddie Bain and what the man was up to? How did he get the kind of throwaway wealth to fund an expedition like Corny's? Not from a restaurant, surely. What, if anything, were his connections with Ms. Celeste Tangent? Why was the FBI interested in him?
Not that it matters. Not that anything matters. I continue this weird, bifurcated existence. I fill my life with this stuff only to find it empty at the end of the day. I suppose the only thing to do in these situations is to invent another life for yourself. But I don't want another life. I want what I had and what now exists only in the suns.h.i.+ne of memory.
But what memories! Into little more than two years we packed a lifetime. We had the most marvelous little wedding at the Miranda Hotel overflowing with friends and champagne. We honeymooned for three glorious weeks in France. (Izzy has remarked that people in relations.h.i.+ps go to therapists; people in love go to Paris.) Elsbeth, I have come to realize, was like a magnifying lens, shaping, brightening, and intensifying my life.
No more. No more! It is like the sad old days again. I think I'll make my way over to the Club. There are people there. Someone might ask me to join their table. If nothing else, the waiters talk to you, they smile, they bring you things.
31.
Diantha, dressed alluringly in slacks, a clinging jersey, and a tailored jacket, came in to see me at the museum this afternoon. My delight at her appearance vanished when I learned she wanted to borrow the car to drive out to Eigermount, Mr. Bain's country place. I was perfectly willing to let her take the old thing, but then she had another idea. ”Why don't you drive me out instead? That way you can see Freddie in his natural habitat. It's surreal, to use one of your words.”
When I declined, she persisted. ”Oh, come on, Dad, you need an outing.”
I couldn't really refuse, even though I was busy with year-end budget matters. Dealing with surpluses, I've found, is quite as tiresome as dealing with deficits. So we took a cab home, where Diantha packed an overnight bag.
We then drove northwest out of Seaboard to the Balerville Road and the picturesque little town of Tinkerton. Where the road forks just beyond a bridge that crosses Alkins Creek, we went right. The route climbed for several miles through gloomy stands of pine and hemlock and brought us eventually to a turnoff that would have been easy to miss. We drove into it and made our way along a narrow paved drive.
Well, Diantha was right about one thing. Seemingly out of nowhere, like a castle conjured in a tale about sinister fairies, rose a great round structure of cut granite. Nestled in a rug of evergreens, it towered at least four stories against the side of a steep declivity. The windows, narrow vertical slits with Gothic arches, blinked at the visitor uncomprehendingly, bringing to mind that line in Yeats about the pitiless sphinx.
A baleful kind of folly, I thought immediately, but let that impression seem, in my outward expression, a kind of awe. ”A Martello tower writ large in the woods,” I said, as though giving it some kind of architectural context might blunt the sense of foreboding I felt wafting from it.
We pulled up across from the main entrance - two ma.s.sive oak doors with studded hinges set in a portal with pointed arch and curved surrounds of weathered stone. I wanted to drop Diantha and scuttle back to the office. I wanted really to keep Diantha in the car with me and drive away. But as in a dream bordering on nightmare, the oak doors opened, and Freddie Bain, in loose trousers and one of those Russian tunics cinched around the waist, came forth.
The man positively clung to me. He wouldn't hear of my returning without coming in for a cup of tea or a gla.s.s of wine.
I parked the car, and we crossed over a virtual drawbridge spanning a dry moat before entering through the great doorway. Such places are not really my cup of tea, but I admit the basic design had a vulgar grandeur to it. Indeed, it reminded me of the museum, only circular, the central core an atrium around which rooms led off from bal.u.s.traded balconies. Sconces in the form of torches alternated with large oils on the walls, which, made of marble or synthetic marble, gave off a dark s.h.i.+ne. An octagonal skylight opened dimly at the top.
Diantha, apparently knowing the place well, went into a kitchen off the main floor to see about tea. Mr. Bain showed me around. He was particularly proud of the immense fieldstone fireplace that, situated on the side of the building against the mountain, rose up through three stories, narrowing as it went before disappearing into the wall. Somewhat prosaically, the heads of mounted game - mostly deer - looked down with gla.s.s-eyed serenity from over the fireplace.
”I had a moose up there, but he was too...how do you say...”
”Lugubrious,” I suggested.