Chapter 32: Friday, Dec. 15

"We had an understanding."

"In writing?"

"We are men of the world, Mr. de Ratour. We are gentlemen. We don't need lawyers to keep ourselves honest." He emerged from the fireplace.

"Perhaps, but I'm afraid you'll have to discuss this with the Museum counsel. I have given the family my word as a gentleman of the world that the tape will be kept sealed in a vault for the next fifty years."

Mr. Bain, the fire now roaring dramatically behind him as though he had stepped, a blond Lucifer, from the flames, smiled grimly. "We will discuss this matter at a more appropriate time... Norman. You don't mind if I call you Norman."

"Not at all." But I did in a way. The inner cringing that people like Mr. Bain provoke in me had already started. I glanced around. To change the subject, I said, "You built this yourself?"

"I did. With an architect indulgent of my whims."

"Which are also many, I presume."

"They are."

"Your restaurant and gift shop must do well to be able to afford this kind of whimsy. Not to mention..." I left it hanging.

"Whimsy?" he repeated, perhaps offended. "Oh, I have many other... resources." He moved out over the coffee table across from me. "Would you like to try a cigar. From Havana."

"No thanks. I never learned to enjoy tobacco."

"One of life's minor little pleasures." He toyed with a cigar but didn't light it.

"You seem to have a penchant for things Russian."

"I have a penchant for many things." He looked in the direction of Diantha, who was emerging from the kitchen in the company of a little old lady in head scarf and frumpy clothes, a veritable Babushka. "Among them beautiful women."

"I would think Diantha worthy of more than a penchant."

He glanced at me anew, his mobile face, his mouth and the finely wrinkled flesh around his eyes, registering a realization and some faint amusement. "That is very well said."

Diantha came over with the tea and the Babushka. "Nana's teaching me Russian," she said with a little laugh. "Spassiba, Nana."

The old woman smiled a gummy smile and retreated.

Diantha, whom I found to be disconcertingly at home, sat in the armchair across from me and poured tea. "Isn't this an amazing place," she more exclaimed than asked.

"I've never seen anything like it," I said honestly.

We made small talk, Mr. Bain standing in front of the large, busy fire, very much the man of the manor. He was definitely Diantha's point of reference, the recipient of her smiles and small attentions. It dismayed me that she could be so taken with him. His charm struck me as an elaborate pose, a kind of parody he put on for his own amusement. He smiled as he related, with a kind of mock homage, how he had visited the Museum several times over the past year or so.

"I like primitive art because it is primitive," he said. "Its savagery has an honesty we've lost."

I nodded, but noncommittally.

Diantha said, "Dad thinks that all art forms have their own integrity."

With a knowing laugh, Mr. Bain said, "Except for that noise your friend Mr. Shakur makes."

What didn't he know already about Diantha and me? I wondered.

At intervals, Mr. Bain's pocket phone would ring, and I found it curious that he usually hung up after a word or two in a foreign language that may have been Russian or German, and excused himself to use a regular phone. At one point a man with a head of shorn, pelt-like hair and wearing a hip-length leather jacket appeared near the entrance and beckoned to Mr. Bain to join him elsewhere in the building.

I suppose I am too scrupulous in these matters to have taken the opportunity to disparage Mr. Bain and his effects in his absence. I doubt Diantha would have listened anyway. She seemed utterly oblivious to any of the more indirect cues I offered her as to my real feelings about the man. And each time he returned, her eyes would brighten and she would hang on his every word.

As I was making motions to get up and go, Mr. Bain produced a bottle of expensive vodka and insisted I join them in a shot for good luck. That led to a second small glass, knocked back with ceremony. And while still capable of driving home, I was inveighed into staying for dinner. It didn't take much convincing, I'm afraid to say. The thought of returning to an empty house had left me vulnerable. And I nursed a faint hope that Diantha might change her mind and return with me to Seaboard for the night.

You may imagine my surprise when the Babushka, answering the sound of a gong, went into the small foyer at the main door and returned with Celeste Tangent in tow.

I expected from the lab assistant a start of surprise, a frown, a look of alarm, even. But after she had finished a loud and elaborate exchange of greetings with her host, she turned to me with an irresistible charm of smiles, voice, and gesture. "Norman, how delightful to see you."

"Miss Tangent," I said, inclining my head, standing my ground.

Next Page: Art as a serious joke, so to speak

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