Leslei was landing in Paris waiting for her flight to Marseilles when Pasqual boarded his flight for Viet Nam. She was curiously refreshed though she’d had 3 glasses of wine and had been flying against the Earth’s rotation; not so giddy to ignore the 3 conspicuous “suits” making every effort to not know each other. Filed away under: questions for Mordecaise. Until their international channel could be synced, it was unlikely she would be receiving much information from Pasqual, nor was it a good idea until the “muddy water” cleared. There was little left but to savor the gentle rhythm of the french language, and to acclimate back into the oenophile culture she remembered so fondly from her days as an art student, and so conjured a Merlot for company while she waited to board.
Her acute vision was an invaluable asset for her work as an operative in the nebulous and increasingly lucrative field of estate recovery; from her perch at the airport bar, she was able to easily discern the 3 suits picking through the news stand glancing to where she was seated rather than the boarding gate. She’d forgotten the fun of field work - the cat and mouse exchange of who’s doing who, and the role of the unexpected. He wore well traveled draw string muslim pants, an overloud Hawaiian print shirt, sandals and dark glasses inside the terminal - reading a book rather than scrolling a handset and took no notice of his surroundings. Leslei was not comfortable when it became clear it was she whom he eventually took notice; even behind dark glasses she felt his scrutiny.
If not her hackles, certainly the fur on her forearm rose when he sat down in the aisle seat to her window seat. Nor was his obvious, nearly rude attention discouraged by her pointedly aloof replies, all that had happened since the appearance of “Mr. Shades” was losing track of the 3 suits. Finally her hackles did rise as she exited her cab heading for the lobby at the airport hotel after their flight when he fell in step, oblivious to her unwelcome, he seemed cheerful and courteous to the clerk inquiring about the food at the hotel restaurant; turning to Leslie he asked “would you care to join me for a bite to eat?”
In a voice that could curdle butter, Leslie smiled and replied, “I’d rather have a boil lanced.”
Alone in her room with the travel and turmoil of the past 20 hours catching up, she puzzled over the strong antagonism she felt toward the stranger in the dark glasses. She knew nothing about him except his forthright visual curiosity, and after a very few minutes of increasing emotional confusion, she lay back into the pillows and was in a deep sleep when the lights shut themselves off, not waking until the automatic drapes began to open with the morning sun. By the time she’d showered and was waiting for the shuttle to the car rental, she’d nearly forgotten her peculiar experience from the night before.
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Pasqual did not remember the mind numbing boredom of airport terminals, but after 6 hours into his 10 hour layover in Seoul South Korea, it was no longer a memory, the boredom was driving ceaseless steps back and forth across the length of the international airport. It seemed an eternity to him that he would not be in Da Nang, until 10:00 the following day, with no idea how long from there to Hoi An - the last permanent address for Reynaldo Schmuck though he died at the Từ Hiếu pagoda in Hue.
Pasqual’s tote began to chatter from his phone’s vibration, surprising him that it wasn’t off. “Hello,” he answered not looking at the number.
“Buenos Dias young traveler.” Mordecaise had a unique phone voice like that of a trusted news announcer. “We had no time before your flight; we need to get on the same page” Pasqual had retrieved his sketch pad where he had started notes for the journey, Mordecaise continued his soliloquy “Interesting information has come to light about the Schmuck Estate, Information from the probate files of the Executor of the parent’s estate, Lammele Dama; it became public at the death of Domhall Schmuck, the eldest and apparently last of the line, are you getting all this?”
Mordecaise had worked long enough with Pasqual to leap right in when necessary, and enjoy the niceties of social convention when possible. “I want you to take precautions during this trip, hyper-vigilance if you will; not just with the case data, but the unknowns of your journey. How are you, where are you, what do you need from me?” Pasqual appreciated his employer’s concern, more so when it was least expected.
“M’good - Seoul, here for four more hours. Da Nang by 10 tomorrow; can’t say about Hoi An or Hue” checking his list, before answering further - “a contact within the civil-authority, politburo, and National Bank would help if shit goes south · more simple the better, like you taught me. What about the Renoir, are you tracking with DHL?”
“The painting is traveling slowly and surely; I have calls in for contacts in VN, waiting on replies. There is an open traveler’s insurance account with ‘Sojourner Fidelity’ under your name, and the Embassy in Hanoi has your estimated itinerary filed; contact the undersecretary Phuc Yeu for anything: we’d gone to school together at Berkeley, just make no cracks about her name - it won’t play well. I am serious about the Hyper-Vigilance, the delicacy of this file has increased by an order of magnitude is all I can say until we are on a more secure channel, got a call, gotta go.”
Pasqual stood staring past his phone into the cavernous terminal with 3 hours and 50 minutes left before take off. Leslei’s txt msg only read “Watch your back,” alone again, searching for any face searching for him.
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The “Croc” was always too empty for Guildern after Angela left for Punta del Este; he was relieved when Mordecaise sat down. “Have you spoken with Pasqual about what you shared with me? Will ya’ have some asado with your wine?” Guildern asked scrutinizing what he could about his friend’s bearded expression.
“Yes, and thank you; that would be good. No, he hasn't got the full story. He needs to get his ‘sea legs,’ travel is a job in itself.”
Guildern returned from placing the order and brought a 3/4 pitcher of Tinto Rojo from the cask of good stuff. Pouring liberally into Mordecaise never-quite-empty goblet, Guildern tried to be helpful. “He will be in greater danger the longer he doesn’t understand it’s: billions not millions you’re playing with.” A flash of fury lit Mordecaise eyes if one knew what to look for, then it was gone. “Even as a trained accountant, I cannot conceive the amounts represented by the strange codicil of the Schmuck estate; now that it’s public record, there'll be blood in the water.” Mordecaise nodded with a “d’ya think?” expression.
“Alerting the lad before we know more would only blunt his native instincts, and possibly telegraph unnecessarily our knowledge; right now it’s routine, let it stay that way for as long as possible.”
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When Leslei arrived in Aix, she drove straight to Demsford’s cottage near Bibemus Quarry. She learned from the landlady that the stone enclosure had been converted from a stable by she and her husband just before he died a year before Demsford took out a twenty year lease. Her ruddy face betrayed a faraway place as she recounted the kindness of a stranger. Leslei also learned that Demsford had not actually died in Aix-en-Provence, but at the Plum Village monastery of the late Thich Nhat Hanh. Demsford’s body had been shipped to Aix by the executor of his estate, Lammele Dama as a courtesy to the Buddhist community. His body was eventually cremated and scattered over Mont Sainte-Victoire.
On a whim Leslei inquired whether the cottage was available; the landlady chirped happily, “Oui”! pulling Leslei along a shaded path to a massive stone archway, large enough to contain french doors and a diamond shaped stained glass faithfully replicating one of Paul Cezanne’s paintings of the Bibemus Quarry.
Leslei had just put away her purse having counted out 3 month’s rent, when a Sherwood Green Aston Martin ground to a halt splaying gravel and spitting out an ascot-throated cartoon character, monocle and all. “I say, I’m here for the advertised ‘Rustic Cottage’,” pulling his Gucci suitcase from the trunk, placing it into the confused arms of Madame Ouvrière who spoke no word of English.
“Sir,” Leslei advised gently, “that property is no longer available;” holding the keys up to his furrowed gaze for inspection.
“I beg to differ, young Miss,” no longer looking at Leslei, but speaking directly to Madame Ouvière having no idea still that she understood nothing of English. “You see, I just concluded a call with my solicitor in London to secure this property for a month commencing today,” addressing the mystified Madame Ouvière, who was shaking her head while clutching his suitcase to her chest as though it was a towel and she’d just been interrupted coming out of the shower. His aristocratic aplomb was beginning to flake and his privilege was turning to bluster. Facing Leslei while extending a belligerent upturned wrist, pinky pointing into her face as though he’d expected the house keys to materialize in his palm.
“Yes of course, I see how you might imagine that to be true, but if you don’t get your hand out of my face, you’ll be retrieving a bloody stump · is that clear enough?” She said this quietly with venomous menace; the flustered gentry pulled his pinkish paw close for inspection, maybe looking for a wound, but certainly feeling the pain of humiliation. “Perhaps if you contact your solicitor, he or she might be able to find you another accommodation¿ Had you been a tad less pretentious, you could have enlisted Ms Ouvière’s help for local knowledge.” Leslei said this glancing at the stranger’s suitcase toppled in the grass where Madame had dropped it as though it was plague infested when the stranger stuck his hand in Leslei’s face.
“That is your reply?” Having recovered his dignity, poise following like a spoiled child. “Clearly you have no idea who I am, or the enemy you have just made. I am The Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon; Monsieur Archdai Tryump at your service. You will be hearing from my solicitor.” Pulling up his suitcase like a boss, tossing it into his vintage vehicle with complete disdain for quality, value or propriety, he gunned his engine and was happily gone like a hangnail.
She heard “The Pretenders” chain gang playing on her phone and knew that Pasqual had left a text message.
"thru customs da nang - china reported 314 cases covid at vietnamese border · wish me luck"
jts 29/01/2021
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