She closed her tattered copy of “1984” for the last time in a dim dawn light determined to sleep before her afternoon shift serving seafood to plague refugees at “Pensione Excelsior" - Punta del Este, Uruguay. Sleep was fitful and fruitful with vivid images of baby Jesus along with answers to thorny questions about Orwell’s deeper reasoning rising like molten bubbles bursting onto the surface of her next ‘fucking day in paradise,’ - still she pondered.
Angela arrived 10 minutes late and could feel the whine of stranded rich people curdling her employer’s good will. Sysa growled lowly and pointedly - “get the fuck out there” · Angela processed tasks well; Sysa knew this from the requests of the uber-Vips for Angela’s table; Sysa also understood Angela was acutely aware of her place in the food chain as she nodded quietly to Sysa’s fake-as-fuck friendly greeting. Angela gathered her iPad and towel in her apron and marched into the marble floor of good food at Excelsior, Punta del Este.
The afternoon sun was setting and the tables were filling with the charmed evacuees from a collapsed world economy. After the 2nd wave of death eviscerated northern economies, these movers and shakers of another age hoped to imprint their former significance onto a new landscape. Few of the pilgrims Angela’s served understood much about the culture in which they’d landed. Armed with gobs of bullion and a surfeit of noblesse oblige that had served them well in “Das Kapital” capitols of New York, Brussels and London for the past 200 years, but now required a nuanced cultural sensitivity absent from their patrician resumes, they were largely clueless.
“Can I help you?” Angela mimed to the garish redhead at her first table unsure which language to use. The brightly painted woman didn’t look up while she ordered catfish, potatoes and salsa in flawless Spanish for herself and her very pretty male companion who was leering from under his eyelashes at Angela while fingering the redhead’s diamond bracelet. “Thank god it’ll be a short shift,” Angela thought “The train should get to Montevideo by 20:00; I’ll be at the ‘Crocodile’ by quarter past, if I’m lucky.” Though the “Punte Este” bistro was steady money, work at the ‘Crocodile Cafe’ was far more entertaining; lucrative, and Guildern the owner was enchanted by her.
The ambulance was pulling away as she arrived at the ‘Croc’ about 10:20; the crowd at the doorway did not include the owner Guildern Suer, which struck Angela odd while Mordecais Lizt was pacing slowly in a tight circle, still clutching his goblet of Tinto Rojo. He was able to focus his hoary blue eyes deeply on her when she joined his slow circular pacing; he stopped in front of her, stooped over and quietly muttered, “Guildern was stabbed in the arm evicting that puta speed freak - Tito. Angela tottered for a moment onto Mordacais’ elbow, murmuring vacantly, “is it busy tonight?”
“Not very; glad you’re here, Guildern was worried you missed the train; I had to force him into the ambulance - he lost a lot of blood - he’ll be okay.” Angela focused her distress and moved through the crowd toward the door like a battalion commander leading ADHD soldiers toward a flickering light. She commenced taking orders in the rapidly filling Bistro - mayhem seems to draw clients like flies; Angela noted, meaning to say nothing of this to Guildern, certain he’d known it before he ever gave the landmark cafe its name. Located deep within moss covered archways overgrown by ancient wisteria and its cloying scent of dulcet decay. The restaurant opened to an aged stone archway and massive oak doors resembling the landing for a dank terminus in a subterranean grotto like the customs office of its former life.
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Guildern sat up quickly - his sight dimmed and he sat back against the cool pillow. He glanced for his phone hoping it was in his “bug bag” on the nightstand. He’d managed to knock Tito unconscious with a beer bottle; standing over the body until the policía confirmed Tito was breathing, then Guildern allowed someone close enough to staunch the blood from his elbow pooling on the ground at his assailant’s shoulder. They used Guildern’s belt for a tourniquet, so his pants rode down his legs while he rode from the “Croc” to the emergency room.
It wasn’t until well passed 3 in the morning before he stepped out of the taxi into the darkened doorway of the cafe. Its door was propped open: there was a faint light on the damp paving stone - its peculiar moss green color contrasting with the vermillion of fresh spilt blood. Angela looked up as he stepped inside; the after-hours crowd ignored them, instead peering into their drinks like a tired herd in semi-stupor. Guildern and Angela settled on stools in the tiny alcove ending the long bar. Their shared fatigue somehow fortified each other; a “WTF just happened” unspoken sentence hanging between them. His hand rested comfortably in the valley of her crotch while she tenderly examined the dressings covering thirty bandaged stitches of his gash.
By 4:30 AM, trade allowed the cafe to close and darken; the two weary friends carried each other’s hand up the staircase to the loft and beckoning berth. Hours later the clattering of fish carts on cobblestones signaled early evening trade and prospects of further local economic recovery. The frontiers had reopened 6 months earlier after 3 years of lockdown. Like the necessary bomb shelters of WWII, people adapted to intervals of interruption, gradually succumbing to an inevitable dysthymia; adapting as best possible to circumstances punctuated by emotional conflagration and the score of scars injured parties carry in their wakes.
Guildern woke to Angela pulling his flaccid member into her mouth with a gentleness he’d forgotten existed in the world. Still woozy from depleted fluids, his gradual arousal resulted in a more sacred and spiritual release than remember’d ever having. Angela swallowed all his cum and dozed with his flaccid member in her mouth. The sun poured through the windows as he stroked her hair and reflected on their past 6 years together. Her petite physique and auburn tresses belied a physical power that still surprised when she hoisted cases of wine onto the top stacks, or shifted crates across uneven floors. So when she began to stir, he quietly crawled between her legs and applied her good instruction as best he’d learned in search of a peak they could both gaze from in their private hearts.
Mordecaise was in the process of stocking the bar for the early afternoon trade when the two climbed back down the stairs they’d climbed the night before. “S’up” Mordecaise grunted in his best imitation of “hood-speak,” just as Pasqual burst through the door slamming it shut before a loud crash echoed followed him into the cafe.
“Fucking Tito is out there with crowbar, swears he’s gonna kill you Guildern - high as a fucking kite.” Guildern didn’t know if he was gonna laugh or cry, so he returned to counting the receipts from the night before. “Man did you hear me?” Angela was on the phone.
Repeating out load the call, “Policia say we’ve exceeded our ration for the month; fix it yourselves ’til next month.” The pounding at the door ceased followed by an ominous silence; Guildern continued counting receipts.
Pssqual rose from his seat lifting the lariat from the wall used for rope tricks during winter festivals to attract clients, exiting the side door. 5 minutes later a loud mewling rose from the courtyard like that of a stuck pig; so loud that Mordecaise stuck his head out to see what was what. What he saw was Pasqual standing over a trussed Tito with a foot balanced awkwardly on a squirming Tito hogtied caterpillar-like trying slough skin off for a new life. Mordecaise refilled his goblet of Tinto Rojo and stepped outside to consult with Pasqual.
Mordecaise set his goblet down on a low table near where Pasqual had sat to admire his gagged handiwork. Mordecaise lowered his voice and peered into Pasqual’s eyes, then began to dictate. Pasqual had his phone ready for notes. “There is a decedent, Domhall Schmuck from Oaxaca who died last Wednesday and arrived here minus documentation; the estate is sizable with no family claiming. I want you to check with your friend Gonzo Benino in Oaxaca for blood relatives, then contact Leslea Corkturn in Salt Lake. He lived in the States for 20 years before 2021 so there may be “blood” - low profile character; when you can, I want anything you can turn up about his business interests; please do this before the Public Administrator files; there may not be a will, so you can expect a lot of interest soon; make sure Gonzo and Leslei understand that.” While he rose, he turned back to Paqual, “there’s a Renoir shipping from NYC to Punta del Este next month, I want it insured for $3.5 million USD, same for the bonded carrier.”
Pasqual watched the gangly hirsute man receding back through the too small doorway and thought to himself, “life’s a real hoot.”
jts 10/01/2021
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170121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 2
Not given to revery, Pasqual wasn’t sure how to process his feelings of that moment. He’d been raised on the “Tejas” border in Brownsville, TX and only through fluke accidents ended up married to Angela Vigoda, a Jewish American Princess (JAP) from North Hollywood, CA - his now ex-wife and concubine to Guildern Seur, owner of the “Crocodile Cafe” and best friend to his current employer Mordecaise Lizt. Pasqual and Angela had barely escaped the 1st Killing Wave at the end of 2021 - “the year that still was, 9 years and a 2nd pandemic later. Pasqual’s mother a full-blooded Chiricahua Apache, direct descendent to Cochise; his father a Rastafarian PhD candidate. His parents met in Nogales, Arizona where his father was doing a dissertation on the relationship of indigenous music to the reggae music of Jamaica.
Angela materialized at his elbow and whatever revery he’d had, vanished like coastal vapor from a rugged shoreline. “Well done vaquero.” Angela sounded quietly to him glancing toward the whimper of the trussed and gagged Tito. “Guildern is much appreciative of your help.” Pasqual, didn’t turn or look, but nodded to the gelded threat. Their dead son Jesus floated over every exchange they’d had since his death during the 1st killing wave. They’d tried to preserve their marriage, but the strain from death and migration proved insurmountable. One night during an unnecessary quarrel over a imaginary suitor, Angela stabbed the mezcal soaked Pasqual through to his liver - after which it was “heal or die,” for Pasqual; “leave him or whither” for Angela.
“Yeah, that brought up a lot of shit I didn’t see coming,” looking deeply into Angela’s emerald green eyes for maybe the first time since that fateful evening she’d stabbed him some 7 years ago. She didn’t turn away seeing the deep remorse in Pasqual’s expression.
“Lad.” Guildern’s gentle voice burst through the fog of their shared memory; as he draped Tito’s quiescent form with a tarp amidst the slow saunter of a curious evening crowd, nodding first to Pasqual, then to the tailgate of a Toyota pickup in the haze of a sunset courtyard. “Give us a hand, will ya’ friend?” Pasqual shifted the load away from Guildern’s wounded arm as they hefted the semi-inert form onto the tailgate and into the bed as Mordecaise waved and shifted into gear; very slowly moving down the alleyway. Guildern took Pasqual’s hand, murmuring into his ear, “thank you friend.”
Angela had vanished inside as the two stood side by side watching the courtyard darken against the tide of that night’s trade - thirsty, fresh, and oblivious to the drama of the past 18 hours.
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Mordecaise navigated toward the wharfs North of Old Town careful to not disturb his cargo or draw attention to his mug full of red wine. The warehouse door was ajar and two figures dropped the tailgate, ferrying the draped figure inside the cavernous building before Mordecaise had turned off the ignition.
“Da’ fuck are you doing?” Tito hissed as Mordecaise ripped Duct Tape from Tito’s haggard angry face. “You fucking kidnapped me ya’ dumb ox,” Tito snarled, too whacked to understand his predicament. “I got friends, d’ay gonna fuck you up;” he spit; trying to piece together the ‘how and wherefore’ of his circumstance. The ache in his head from the night before beat itself into the rhythm of a steady tic in his right eye that winked with each empty threat.
Mordecaise seated Tito on a stool dead center within the large space; there was a metal pole rising from the seat to the height of Tito’s windpipe. In order for hime to sit, he had to splay his legs; leaning forward made breathing difficult; his restrained arms were draped over the pole keeping him face front and limiting peripheral vision. What light he could see came through a small circular window high up and behind him; it lit the wall in front of him like an amorphous orb crawling up the wall, dimming and fading with the setting sun - a bizarre sunrise from an alternate universe . . . Tito was “jonesing;” fix, or fear; he couldn’t tell anymore.
“¿Comfy amigo?” Mordecaise voice was flat, icy, and close behind him. Tito began to shiver.
Murmuring to himself, “Gonna fuck you up, pinche buey; you fucked’ wit’ da’ wrong vato,” thrusting his chest out and gasping from the pressure at his windpipe; a talon like grip grasped his head tilting it up and pulling it forward.
“Stay like that to keep breathing,” Mordecaise calmly suggested; pressing his knee into Tito’s thorax. Wheezing assent, Tito’s frame became still against the pole. Tito knew the smell of welding and understood it was a welder’s helmet being pressed onto his skull. With a hiss, gas from an opened valve startled him further. . . Tito frantically searched his mind for the odor he was breathing; he knew it, but couldn’t remember, like so many parts of his life . . The knee pressed again, into the small of his back forcing him to gulp deeply for air, and laugh out loud - fucking - Nitrous Oxide. “¿What are you laughing at Tito?” The orb of light had vanished into the ceiling, replaced by a strobing red beacon pulsing with increasing intensity - brighter and brighter, until it was painfully brilliant.
Tears were streaming down Tito’s face from laughing so hard, and still that icy voice at his shoulder pressed for an answer, “Tito, you stabbed my friend - I’m not laughing, why are you?” Though blunted from substance abuse since childhood, and a veterano of gun battles and dodgy drug deals with vicious criminals, Tito had never been so confused, or frightened - he began to pee. That electrified the pole sending a charge to his damp crotch. Now he was weeping, laughing and peeing. From a distance, it might seem as though Tito was a cheerful welder laughing through a day’s labor.
“Tito; what is so damn funny? You stabbed my friend; I’m not laughing.”
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“Angela, table 3 is on their 4th round of “White Russians.” Angela glanced to the 5 seated at table 3; they were beginning to spill from their chairs; spill their drinks, and based on volume - the deepest recesses of their souls. “Shall I cut them off, or can you ween them slowly?” Guildern said looking at Angela; he relied on her keen customer service skills a lot.
It was close to the witching hour when clients shed more than their inhibitions - a fine line between commerce and mayhem, Guildern’s bandaged arm being testimony. “Let’s see if they can be encouraged back to the hotel by tales of lurking late-night bad guys in old town.” Angela kissed Guildern’s cheek, caressed his wounded arm and wandered off balancing her heavy tray high over the crowd, but still able to whisper something in passing to table 3 that dampened their picnic like a summer storm.
Mordecaise was entering through the side door as table 3 called for the check. With his red wine, he waded through the crowd to Pasqual who’d been quietly on the phone the entire night. “Where’d ya’ go boss,” searching the bemused face of his mentor; Pasqual’s question further brightened the twinkle in his friend’s eyes.
“Business Lad, always business.” Mordecaise checked over Pasqual’s copious notes, deciphering some notations from Pasqual’s unique script. “How far did you get with Domhall Schmuck?” Mordecaise respected Pasqual’s research skills and relentless curiosity, but wasn’t prepared for this report.
“It’s fucking strange, and just gets stranger and stranger.” Peering through his notes, Pasqual bent back his hunched shoulders taking a deep breath and exhaling a single thread of facts.
“The Schmucks were 3 brothers, until a little over a year ago, when the youngest brother Demsford died; six months later to the day, the middle brother Reynaldo died, then the eldest, Domhall six months later, almost to the day. They’d been orphans since 1976, when their parent’s private plane crashed in transit between NYC and their home in Philadelphia. They were raised by the family attorney and guardian, Lammele Dama Esq.: Domhall was 16, Reynaldo 14 and Demsford 12. Each inherited 1/3 of their parents $3.3 million estate (today’s value $18.9 million) on their 21st birthdays; Demsford died in a motorcycle accident while in retreat near Thich Nhat Hanh’s Plumb Village in France; hw was interred in the city he was living, Aix-en-Provence. Reynaldo died at Thich Nhat Hanh’s Root Pagoda, Từ Hiếu in Hue, Vietnam, and Domhall in Oaxaca; Mexico, as you know the death certificate was filed here in Montevideo without any record of how the corpse appeared in the morgue.“ Pasqual took in a breath, like a young student who’d just recited his first book report while Mordecaise marveled how he’d found such a gifted investigator without even looking - fucking synchronicity he thought to himself beaming with affection for Pasqual. “Like i said, boss - this is the strangest thing i’ve seen yet,” oblivious to the admiration in his mentor’s cobalt blue eyes.
jts 17/01/2021
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
all rights reserved
210121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 3
Mordecaise savored this information like a tender morsel just off the grill while smiling past Pasqual’s curious expression. “3 brothers dead within a year of each other,” Mordecaise repeated into the swelling cacophony of the “Croc.” It was that cheerful hour before the “sauce” corroded natural kindness and turned quaffing patrons into quarrelsome buffoons. Pasqual sensed Mordecaise’ heightened interest, though he seemed not have heard a word; the only indication - a quiet murmur in Pasqual’s direction while peering into his Tinto Rojo. Pasqual’s phone began to vibrate toward an ashtray of marijuana butts filled from the afternoon’s hunt. “Hello, Leslei - thank you. Yeah it’s weird enough; can you talk¿ are you secure,” knowing this precaution barely slowed the “state’s surveillance apparatus”, it served to dust the trail of amateur interlopers.
“I’m as quiet as I’m allowed; never seen anything like this - 3 siblings dead within a year of each other; all monies funneling to the next of kin - then to the eldest, Domhall who near as i can tell is intestate,‘no known heirs’. Their estimated combined assets are over $27.3 million; there is blood in the water. What have you learned?”
Pasqual did not respond to her question, rather asking one, “Have you ordered death certificates for Reynaldo and Demsford?” She grunted affirmative. “Do you have a cause of death?” he asked waiting for an answer.
Leslei was accustomed to Pasqual’s brusqueness, though he was particularly curt in this call. “I have calls into the local authorities; for Demsford who died at Plum Village - Meyrac, France; the body interred in Aix en Provence. My French helps, but for inquiries about Reynaldo’s death at the Từ Hiếu root pagoda in Hue, and why the body was interred in Hoi An, we’ll need an operative in country or a local fluent in English; I’ll let you know when I know.”
“See if the local police can help, they may have translators. For now, focus on France and text me when you hear anything. Gotta go” Pasqual hung up and looked toward Mordecaise who’d been listening and jotting notes in his old school note pad. “Leslei got as far as she could; the bad news is the Schmucks are considered foreign decedents, so the estate filings will be at a snail’s pace; Demsford’s estate would have gone to Reynaldo, and then both to Domhall, who apparently was intestate; the good news is the three are foreign decedents, etc., etc.”
Pasqual waited for Mordecaise’ attention, rather than interrupt . . . without looking up Mordecaise asked, “Were you able to arrange insurance and a bonded carrier for the Renoir in NYC?” After 6 years working together, Pasqual was accustomed to the shifting gears of Mordecaise’ eidetic memory.
“Shipping with DHL/Special Handling Unit; additional indemnity with Prudential, Waiting for from/to and customs declarations from you; the forms are in the ‘outgoing’ file in your locker.” Mordecaise’ flip phone’ ring tone “Mephisto’s Waltz” signaled the an incoming call.
Mordecaise unfolded his lanky frame into long strides toward the front door against the rising tide of clients seeking an evening peak at the “Croc’s,” telephone nestled in the crook of his neck while his jutting elbow pierced air over the crowd’s oblivious brainpans. Angela remembered the painted redhead and her swain from the Excelsior - she was headed for the stage; the two were dressed in matching crocodile skin boleros with knee high crocodile boots. They elbowed their way to the stage as indelicately as Mordecaise had delicately left. Angela turned to Guildern’s voice; “Rasta band called in ‘sick - These two are ‘Roja y Rojito’, please help them set up, they’re what we got for the night.” Guildern was pacing toward the alcove with a handful of receipts before Angela could reply, while watching the restive crowd eyeing the red-haired lady and her crocodile-skinned poodle perch on the dais in their curiously appropriate attire.
The red-haired dame nodded toward Angela without recognition, though the pretty lad was still leering at Angela as he obsequiously trailed the painted lady. “Is there anything I can get you?” Angela inquired of the red-haired dame while shifting stools and tables to fit their petit ensemble and light instrumentation. “Absinthe if you have it, Ouzo if you don’t - or just Bourbon neat if that’s all there is. He’ll be having water”, nodding to her pet and his tattooed smirk. Like information sharing of an old growth forest, news from the harrowing night before filtered through the bar making it twitch like a shiver of sharks with the scent of blood waiting for . ..
What happened next jostled what was left of Angela’s conceit about knowing the world; within six chords, the painted red haired woman Angela had scorned the night before as gouache at Excelsior, broke into a gripping rendition of Cuco Sánchez’ “La Cama de Piedra.” Angela stood rooted by the sound of a room full with people moved by song; before her breathe returned to normal the small band broke into a cover of Lila Downs, and Paul Cohen’s “La Cumbia del Mole.” It filled every empty space of that transfigured room and thrummed with syncopation from the congas of her minor squeeze in their matching attire. Guildern was as struck dumb as any stone in the ancient walls of that cavern; and returned to counting receipts.
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As any elder woman born to the late 20th century, Leslei Coeurktern had been cutoff and mansplained often, so she was unfazed by Pasqual’s boorish behavior, and instead followed the money: 3 dead brothers worth millions; curiously timed death of principals; estates lacking heirs; and Pasqual dodging questions. She signed into her VPN account and booked a ticket for Paris the next day, then texted Pasqual advising him of same requesting additional instructions. “Landing at CDG, then MRS - will call when past jlag.” She commenced packing, adding notes to her phone then bluetoothing them to her laptop which auto-loaded to her neon green thumbwheel deleting previous threads - a single lighter-sized record of her transactions + selected audio & visual recordings.
Leslei had live often out of a single carry-on valise and so kept one packed with a separate traveling wardrobe. She was packed and prepared for sleep within minutes of hanging up the phone. She had studied fine art in her youth and was looking forward to seeing Aix-en-Provence again having spent a year in the city living at the International Student Dormitory working toward a PhD in Fine Art during her 30’s. Part of her research for Demsford Schmuck revealed a long term lease for a small cottage, near the Bibemus Quarry - as good a place as any to begin an investigation into the death of the first of the Schmuck brothers, she hoped.
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“Yeah?” Mordecaise answered, trying to recall the incoming number from the 1,000s in his memory bank. “Monsieur, Lizt c'est Pierre à Marseille avec les informations que vous avez demandées,” hearing no reply, Pierre continued; “Le défunt Demsford Schmuck a succombé à des blessures dans un accident de moto il y a un peu plus d'un an. Les autorités ont localisé deux frères; un à Hoi An, au Vietnam; l'autre à Montevideo, en Uruguay, dont aucun n'a répondu à des enquêtes approfondies. La valeur estimée de la succession du défunt est de près de 6,3 millions USD” Though they’d never met Pierre appreciated the fair-trade wage scale which Mordecaise adhered to religiously, and so waited some moments before he inquired, “¿avez-vous d'autres instructions?”
Not wishing to alert his able operative, Mordecaise spoke casually; non, c'est très utile; Je vous rappellerai si vous pouvez faire autre chose - une question d'assurance de routine. ¿Comment vont la femme et les enfants? Celeste est-elle complètement rétablie? signalant les exigences des entreprises, Mordecaise - a répondu avec dynamisme, à la réponse de Pierre «Bon, Bon - mais. .. ” Pierre acknowledged their mutual demands, by hollering into the phone with a warm au revoir as the connection broke.
Laying down his phone, Mordecaise looked at Pasqual, “Can Leslei travel¿ she is French fluent, oui? Pasqual nodded yes but was thinking about the 2nd brother Reynaldo realizing the city he died in was the same place Tio Ernesto died during the ’68 Tet offensive during the American war in Vietnam. There were many male figures missing from Pasqual’s life besides his murdered father; “Boss, we also need boots on the ground in Vietnam, but you knew that,” they looked at each as though seeing the same adventure
jts 21/01/2021
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
all rights reserved
260121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 4
Angela woke up to horse cart clatter below their window; Guildern’s pillow was still warm when she pulled his smell close to her. Stepping quietly into the room and seeing here awake he cooed “Good morning little darlin’ wiping down his sturdy frame; the dressing was removed and Angela got her first look at the stab wound from Friday night. She asked Guildern to wiggle his fingers. “It’s okay,” clinching his fist as much for effect as curiosity. Stretching her lithe figure into the new day for his benefit, she told him “the First Aid kit is downstairs; let’s wrap your arm up here.” He sauntered naked out the doorway down the stairs. After 6 years, he could still surprise her. “Shall I put coffee on?” he chirped from below,”or would you like some more sleep?”
“Coffee is a good idea,” she called from the door pulling up her running shorts and sports bra. Angela was a timeless 40 and wore her skin well - having worked in bars and restaurants for most of her adult life, she’d never been tempted by the habits of bistros, preferring the endorphin fix from a good workout. Prancing down the stairs she pirouetted into Guildern’s outstretched coffee-cupped arms. “Aren’t you sweet,” relieving him of one and pecking him on the cheek, before seating herself to lace her moccasins. Pasqual had shown her the wisdom of barefoot running, one of many things they’d learned through love. When the key scraped the big door, Guildern trotted back up the stairs.
“Morning M’lady,” Mordecaise piped merrily, “entertaining naked men in the empty bistro I see. Au’yuh be a bawdy bunch - douting me love-addled mate knows the better · poor dumb ox;” pecking her forehead tenderly. He laid an unfolded note on the table in front of her; she could tell from the writing it was Pasqual’s.
Boss, Aside from the mayhem on Friday, things are pretty well in hand -
The Renoir has shipped. Based on our conversation last night; I accept
your offer to investigate Reynaldo’s death and have booked a flight
to Da Nang tomorrow evening late. Pasqual
Angela wasn’t prepared, and gingerly stepped toward the door, waving bye over her shoulder just as Guildern reached the table. The two men watched the door close, then looked at each other in a way only old men can.
Staff began to arrive for the busy Sunday brunch, and the two retreated to the back table. Guildern normally inquired little into Mordecaise’ varied business interests, so he was surprised when Mordecaise asked, “Is Angela going to be okay with this?” Guildern was unsure what he was asking and waited while Mordecaise stared into his goblet of Tinto Rojo. “I’ve never seen anything like it before: 3 dead brothers within a year of each other; huge estate - no one claiming, no one talking; feels hinky.” Guildern watched his friend fold and refold Pasqual’s note.
The front door burst open and the painted lady dragged her young friend inside the darkened room by his earlobe. “Puta buey, m’gonna feed you your cajones cuando tengo un puto cuchillo,” fairly spitting this into his trembling face. Knowing only that the Cuban rasta band remained MIA, Guildern rose slowly like one might facing a rabid dog, rabid, but very gifted dog.
“Sra, disculpe. Puedo Ayudar?” pulling a chair out while moving heavy objects to the nearest table Guildern guided the fraught woman and her nearly inert charge into seats at the closest table. “Háblame,” he cajoled kindly into the direction of a helpful glass of water, lifting it to her fearsome, but calming face, Guildern was focused: except for a dropped conversation, Angela’s curious goodbye; why Pasqual was on his way to Vietnam; who’d be entertaining tonight? . ..
The painted lady relaxed visibly and pointed to the red-faced recently released man-child: “fucking puta hit on some chula after pleading for a ‘raise.’ What would you do¿? besides cutting off his pinche verga? Clearly she didn’t expect a reply, instead peering with daggers into the face of her chastened poodle. Guildern had heard nothing from the Cubans and had been greatly impressed by their encore performance the night before; “I’ll pay you for two days - 3 sets if you stay through to 5 am.” She was placid in her reply; standing up.
“Oui, c’est bon.” Picking up a leather strap at the nape of her, alert, cautious companion, She led him toward their new digs at the back of the “Croc.” Guildern, stood and bowed, pinching his fingers together in the universal “filthy lucre” gesture followed by the two fingered peace sign, meaning x 2; the painted lady nodded, with her truculent, however compliant poodle in tow.
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Leslei was in her seat on the runway when the text message arrived while taxiing. “will apprise M of ur dest; deprtng now for VN: kpn tch” While no longer the crap shoot flying had been during the 1st killing wave, the thrill of travel, however inexpensive was gone and only the interminable hours of waiting and lack of sleep remained of the former “charm of distance”.
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Pasqual was finishing his packing, stuffing his travel tote with preprinted boarding passes and his passport when the bell called from the downstairs’ gate. “Who is it?” though he was looking directly into Angela’s eyes staring at the camera in the entryway on his phone.
She looked right into the camera, “funny,” she mouthed, making no sound - “just open the fucking door, fool.” He still enjoyed her front, though she’d never hear it from him. He pressed the buzzer, and she pushed through the gate. Her expression as he opened the door, even after all these years was as indecipherable to Pasqual as the mind of a baby. She didn’t wait for an invitation pushing past him into a room she’d never been in. “Viet fucking Nam¿ Are you stupid?
They stood in the middle of the room unable to look at the other - unable to look away. “What’s wrong with Vietnam?” he posed, knowing her reply would have no effect on his decision - curious the same; he had great respect for Angela’s nimble intellect. “1/3 of China perished in 2027; have you looked on a map recently¿” She was not listening, rather expressing her feelings physically; arms folded, a foot facing forward reducing her profile to him into a single long line peering from the pinnacle of her glance into the obelisk of Pasqual’s still soul.
“What do you want¿” as he turned back to tracking the movable parts of his world into his new home. She knew, nothing she could say would change his “pighead”, so she spoke from the heart.
“I want you to be safe,” she went out the door that hadn’t shut, then pulled it toward her like a lover and blew Pasqual a kiss, gazing at him through a prism of time.
When he saw Angela at the door, Pasqual had frozen like a burglar when a light switch gets thrown. He began to breathe again when the door clicked shut. It took him 10 minutes to find his passport and the to do list:
1) cat food
2) fish to manager - pay 3 month’s rent
3) electricity - 3 months
4) vaccination record
5) scooter lock
6) birth certificate
He knew if he didn’t sleep the journey would be more dangerous, so he shed his clothes drank the last of his turmeric and marijuana tea, laid himself onto his pallet and breathed his way into a deep, deep sleep.
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When Angela returned for the early evening shift, Guildern was at the back table uncharacteristically still with his face to the wall - Mordecaise leaning into his open ear. It was a full Sunday night, and Angela did not have a minute until the end of ‘Rojita & Rojo’s’ 2nd set; they were crowd tamers; Angela was upstairs packing her things for the ride back to Punta del Este when Guildern touched her startled shoulder. “Hell of a weekend, eh? Are you going to be okay?” Angela felt his gentle caress, appreciating him the more for it. Since Friday, he’d been stabbed; lost his headliners; supported his friend with generous attention and learned to open himself more to her abrupt ways.
“I am, and grateful; more grateful than I know how to say.” She turned and nestled into his arms like a warm bath at the end of long run. “I’m not ready to leave, and not ready to stay.” Can you come and spend the night in Punta del Este - give your arm a rest; the ocean is a healer.” The invitation was not quite open, urgent in a way; she looked at her phone and waited, not looking at Guildern, just waiting. He touched her shoulder and pointed a finger to the ceiling, signaling - one moment · Mordecaise glanced up and listened to his friend, nodding at intervals. Minutes later as the 3rd set began, Guildern came down the stairs with a satchel, pausing next to Angela’s seat and glancing around the room; she rose, and they left.
During the train ride, Angela listened intently to Guildern’s story which explained Pasqual’s journey, but did little to soothe her anxiety. At Punta del Este, they could not get through the door quickly enough to satisfy their need for naked communication - words had no meaning in the terrain they wandered through for hours. When Guildern finally woke, Angela had left a note on the table with an empty cup pointing to either the coffee pot or the beach beyond. She was finishing her barefoot run just as he peeled his shorts off and waded naked into the gentle waves for a saline soak before the long ride back to the “Croc”.
Guildern’s neatly arranged world was fraying warp by woof once again and he knew there was fuck-all that could be done, but remain alert and open; hopefully positioned to aid and assist friends as they marched toward destinies, which by circumstance defied explanation but remained pregnant with meaning - meaning minus understanding · a lot like the first 30 years of the 21st Century.
jts 26/01/2021
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290121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 5
Leslei was landing in Paris waiting for her flight to Marseilles when Pasqual boarded his flight for Vietnam. She was curiously refreshed though she’d had 3 glasses of wine and had been flying against the Earth’s rotation; though not too giddy to miss the three “suits” trying hard not to know each other - more questions for Mordecaise. Until their international channel could be synced, it was unlikely she’d be receiving much information from Pasqual until the “muddy water” of transit cleared. So she savored the patois of France, and acclimated slowly to the oenophile culture she remembered fondly from years as an art student, sipping a Merlot for company while waiting 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 discern the 3 suits picking through the news stand glancing toward the bar she 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 muslim pants, an overloud Hawaiian print shirt, sandals and dark glasses inside the terminal - reading a book rather than scrolling on a telephone, taking no notice of his surroundings. Leslei was not thrilled to learn it was she whom he was taking notice; even behind dark glasses she felt his scrutiny.
If not her hackles, certainly the fur on her forearms 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 happened since “Mr. Shades” arrived, was losing track of the 3 suits. After an hour and a half flight her hackles did rise when upon exiting her cab and heading for the lobby of the airport hotel he fell in step, oblivious to her disdain for his company. 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 would pause a train, 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 her strong antagonism toward the stranger. 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 before 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 had forgotten the mind numbing boredom of airport terminals, but 6 hours into his 10 hour layover in Seoul South Korea, it was no longer a memory, the boredom drove ceaseless steps back and forth across the length of the international terminal. 11:00 AM in Da Nang seemed an eternity away to him - Hoi An, even longer - the last address for Reynaldo Schmuck was Hoi An, 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 in airport mode. “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’d started notes for the journey, Mordecaise continued his soliloquy “Interesting information about the Schmuck Estate from the executor, Lammele Dama; it became public upon the death of Domhall Schmuck, the eldest and apparent end of the blood line.”
Mordecaise had worked long enough with Pasqual to interrupt when necessary, and enjoy the niceties when possible. “I want you to take precautions during this trip, hyper-vigilance if you will; not just with the case data, but weird shit in your travels. 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 - five more hours in Seoul; Da Nang by 11 am 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 for emergencies · more simple the better, like you say. What about the Renoir, are you tracking with DHL?”
“The painting is traveling slowly and surely; I have calls in for contacts in VN for you, 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 were in school together at Berkeley; make no cracks about her name - it won’t play well. I’m serious about Hyper-Vigilance, the importance 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 4 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 his; he texted back “U2”.
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The “Croc” was always too empty for Guildern when Angela was in 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 his friend’s expression.
“Yes, and thank you; that would be good. No, he’s not got the full story. He needs to get his ‘sea legs,’ travel is a job in itself.”
Guildern placed the order and returned with a 3/4 pitcher of Tinto Rojo - the good stuff. “He will be in greater danger the longer he doesn’t know it’s billions not millions you’re messing with.” A flash of fury lit Mordecaise eyes, if you 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 is blood in the water.” Mordecaise nodded with a “d’ya think?” expression.
Mordecaise gazed kindly toward his friend and replied, “Alerting the lad before we know more would only blunt his exceptional instincts, and possibly telegraph what we know; now it’s just routine. Let it be that 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 before he died a year before Demsford took out a twenty year lease. Madame Ouvrière’s ruddy face held a faraway looke 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 framed french doors and two pains of stained glass faithfully depicting two of Paul Cezanne’s paintings, one of the Bibemus Quarry and one of Mount Sainte Victoire.
Leslei had just put away her purse after counting 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 she’d grabbed coming out of the shower. His aristocratic aplomb was beginning to flake and his privilege turned to bluster. Facing Leslei while extending a belligerent palm up limp wrist, pinky pointing into her face as though he’d expected the house keys to fall in his hand.
“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 tangible 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 plague infested when the stranger stuck his hand in Leslei’s face.
“That is your reply?” Having recovered his dignity, poise then followed 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; 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 the quality or value of either, he gunned his engine and was gone from the clearing like a painful hangnail.
She heard “The Pretenders” chain gang playing on her phone and knew that Pasqual had left a text message.
jts 29/01/2021
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
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030221 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 6
It was late Thursday; Guildern grinned to himself anticipating Angela’s return, he was not prepared when 3 members of the Cuban Rasta band “Venceramos Brigade” reappeared spilling through the doorway climbing on stage and looking around for an audience. “Jefe, ese - que pasa, ¿donde estan las ovejas?” Jaime Quixote hollered to Guildern, though Jaime was not the front man, he coordinated schedules and logistics, so Guildern was not backward in his reply.
“Da’ fuck are you doing? ¿Donde has estado ESE?” Guildern asked, climbing on the dais and into Jaime’s face - being an efficient manager and unassuming personality; Guildern’s taut workingman’s physique was not what Jaime expected to be dealing with when he entered the bistro and he backpedaled quickly to a stool looking up from under downcast eyes.
“Si, maestro. Discúlpeme Señor - la cárcel de Buenos Aires: el Che golpeó a un policía el miércoles por la noche por una multa de estacionamiento, Solo nos liberaron porque se inspector se entero de que éramos headliners en el Crocodile Café de Montevideo. Tu eres famoso, solo lo liberarán cuando confirmes y compones 2 noches por cuatro personas - Por cierto, debe saber que el Che estaba tan agradecido que le dio un gran beso húmedo en los labios del inspector).
(Yes master - in jail in Buenos Aires - Che slugged a cop Wednesday night over a parking ticket. They only released us because the inspector learned that we were headlining the Crocodile Cafe in Montevideo. You are famous - they will only release him when you confirm and comp 2 nights for four people. BTW you should know Che was so grateful that he planted a big wet kiss on the inspector’s lips.)
Pasqual had been gone since Saturday; Angela since Sunday; and Mordecaise since Monday - Guildern had never felt so lonely laughing so hard.
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Mordecaise was landing in Mexico City when Pasqual landed in Da Nang: Mexico was the last entry on Domhall’s passport and Buena Vista Oaxaca C/O Corina Abeja was his last known address. It did not explain how Domhall Schmuck’s corpse arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay minus documentation or how Corina Abeja came to be executor of the estate. Gonzo Veneno was at the departure gate for Oaxaca when Mordecaise finished with customs. “Don Liszt, it is good to see you again - ¿cinco anos, no?” Mordecaise nodded, glancing toward the departures screen.
“At least - far too long. Thank you for meeting me and arranging my flight. What have you discovered about this mysterious Sra. Abeja?” The visibly fatigued man folded his lanky frame into one of the too small seats of every airport lounge in the world, guiding his friend by an elbow to an adjacent seat.
“Mysterious: but practical and consistent; she has been widowed 3 times in 12 years; each time to a wealthy older foreigner in poor health without a hint of scandal: each spouse died of natural causes, with no heirs claiming. Domhall was the only intestate decedent.” Mordecaise showed no surprise listening impassively. “When Domhall disappeared she immediately notified the authorities and was by all accounts distraught. I’ve made no effort to contact her at her artist commune in the hills outside of Oaxaca.” Gonzo finished his report waiting while his friend digested this information.
Eventually Mordecaise took out his notepad, making notes and thumbing through pages placing marks at previous references. He looked up at Gonzo with some surprise at the presence of an old friend. “Gonzo, that is excellent work. What is your sense about how Domhall Schmuck ended up dead in another country with no record of travel? Does Ms Abeja figure in the mystery according to any local authorities you’ve spoken with?” Gonzo did not answer, but made clear that he’d thought much about the puzzle. Mordecaise asked, “Have you had any communication with Lammele Dama? the executor of the parent’s estate” leaving out that he had.
“There is a sealed codicil is all I’ve learned; Sr. Dama has not responded to numerous inquiries,” again waiting for his friend’s reply which never came; instead Mordecaise rose when boarding was announced, embraced Gonzo and kissed his patient friend on both cheeks never looking back as he trudged toward an antsy boarding crowd, taking no notice of the 3 ‘suits’ in line watching him trudge from over their shoulders while Gonzo snapped telephone photos that only Mordecaise would see.
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13:30 Pasqual pulled up in a cab to “Duyên Dáng Homestay on Cua Dai in Hoi An, about the time Sysa Phish was hissing “stupid cunt” imprecations to an indifferent Angela late on what would be her last Thursday night shift at the Excelsior in Punta del Este. The rancor of her manager had become scar tissue rather than foundations for professional development; Angela knew the job was over; the perturbation was not worth the compensation: Angela calculated her exit thankful for Guildern’s open invitation for a home at the “Croc;” With more than her typical attention to detail she eyed the Digital-something CEO and his consort squatting at table 2 for the past 3 1/2 hours, on their 4th magnum of Dom Perignon, with no more than hors d'oeuvres on their tab to show for it . ..
.. . “Mijchaa” he slurred to her hip when she passed their table, “deze oystures, son muyie mahlo - nongonna payie fur dem. Poot da’ bille on hour rooom; n’ send dos mas botillias n’ bettur oystures, too room 666. Mebee stupido tu gunna ghet a beeg bonus fur bean soo dumm n’ Purty.
“I’ll be happy to arrange that for you, and if you want to go now, it will be there when you get to your room. Please sign this for your receipt, handing them a blank sheet. Thank you very much for your patience with our poor service.” She waited until they had stumbled toward the lobby, nodding luxuriantly in their direction. After she’d cleared out her locker, and filled in their order on the blank sheet, she stopped to confer with Sysa Phish; “the guests at table 2 are waiting for 3 bottles of ‘Gusano Rojo Mezcal’ and a kilo of Escargot to be sent to their room and added to their bill. Angela handed the signed order to Sra. Phis, saying sweetly, “Thank you again, Sysa for giving me Friday night off - it means the world to me.”
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Pasqual had not had a drink since Angela stabbed him in the liver 7 years earlier, nor did he understand exactly why he’d ordered Bourbon neat when the flight attendant was providing refreshments somewhere over the Pacific on his flight to Viet Nam. But when he had arrived in Hoi An after a 36 hour journey with two 6 hour layovers and the glass of warm water when he arrived, the beer and a glass of ice the kindly proprietress offered him seemed heaven sent. The innkeeper was a chipper lass full of winning ways and an inscrutable grin beneath her twinkling almond eyes framed perfectly by her heart shaped face. Pasqual was seated at a low bamboo table with a taciturn, but not unpleasant man that turned out to be the elder brother and a leading figure in the community. Bowls of noodles and spring rolls appeared at the low table and Pasqual’s glass was never empty for the next 4 hours while she pumped him enthusiastically about his life and reasons for being in Hoi An.
As a latino raised in Brownsville Texas, Pasqual was accustomed to being interrogated, but never so kindly; he felt no threat from the proprietress, Tieh Ngong’s questions, rather flattered by the attention of an attractive Vietnamese woman. The brother’s prior silent attention was piqued when Pasqual mentioned Hue; he then queried Pasqual further after it was understood that Pasqual’s journey included archival research concerning two decedents - Pasqual’s uncle, “Missing in Action” since the Tet Offensive of 1968, and the death of an expat, Reynaldo Schmuck who expired near the Từ Hiếu Pagoda in Hue, a little over 6 months earlier, though the death certificate was issued in Da Nang. An hour later feeling more like an alien transported into another realm than a seasoned operative on a mission in a foreign land. He regrettably excused himself and sought the sanctuary of his nearby room, being asleep within minutes of his head falling onto a crisp cotton pillowcase.
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Guildern was ecstatic when he learned of Angela’s decision to remain permanently in Montevideo. His joy seemed to resonate from the stone walls the Thursday night she surprised him with her early entrance. “Che and the Venceremos Brigade” had won the toss and played the first of alternating weekends that Guildern had mandated the night before, after the two bands tried to settle their conflict using egos and butter knives. Guildern brandished his machete from behind the counter and ended preliminary discussions.
“Querida,” Angela peered into Guildern’s darkened eyes when the “Brigade’s” tempo had slowed and the two had taken to what dance floor a repurposed room like the Croc could provide. The band could have been playing “La Cucaracha ” for all the two of them cared, as Guildern tenderly turned the “her” of his world around the dance floor. Ever the perceptive professional, the front man Che Quimera conjured Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” from the band when Angela’s luminous eyes moistened during the slow rhythmic dance. Alas the universe wasn’t buying sentiment that night, and just for emphasis, Guildern’s phone began chiming Franz Liszt’s “Mephisto” - Guildern had no choice but to break the spell and connect with the traveling Mordecaise.
“Amigo, this had better be good,” he answered in a not unfriendly way.
“I’m in jail in Oaxaca, Carina Abeja is not picking up: It’s a bogus charge of mistaken identity based on a photo from from an airport rent-a-cop with too much responsibility and a passion for detective magazines.”
Guildern didn’t know what to say. “You’re kidding, right?” He was used to peculiar events following his friend like hungry puppies, but this was new. “Have you told the authorities that you had been a judge for the Miss Universe Contest?”
“What’re you a fucking comedian! I’m in jail, without sleep, 10s of 1,000s of kilometers from home, and you want to crack wise? Da’ fuck is the matter with you?” His friend’s complete lack of humor should have alerted Guildern who was just realizing he’d better calm his friend before someone got hurt.
“I know an Abogada in Oaxaca, Sra Luz de Ley - she will be there within the hour, will you be okay that long?” Guildern knew his friend would be okay when he replied in rapier fashion . ..
“Unless a rabid chupacabra gets me first,” he’d hung up before Guildern chuckled to himself.
jts 03/02/2021
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
all rights reserved
060221 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 7
Mordecaise rose from his 1st class seat the moment the aircraft door opened and the passengers began the slow shuffle to exit. He did not check any luggage and had passed through the exits of the terminal in search of a Taxi, when two refrigerator sized hombres materialized on each side of him flashing official badges with a bearing that Mordecaise recognized as authentic functionary. The long executive model police vehicle at the curb waiting with open doors confirmed his guess. He entered the vehicle minus his two escorts who closed the door behind him. He found himself facing a portly fellow who spoke English with a slight German accent, Sr. Liszt, so good to finally meet you. We’ve been waiting anxiously for your arrival with questions regarding the disappearance of one Domhall Schmuck. Please accept our hospitality during this investigation pertaining to our National Security.” The rotund face contained pinkish hued jowls and pursed lips giving him the appearance of a hamster chewing when he spoke. When the man finished his opening gambit, he sat back in the ancient leather seat looking for all the world like a senior citizen resigned to waiting for a bus.
“Am I in custody?” Mordecaise asked gazing tiredly in the direction of his captor.
“Si señor, but we prefer to think of it as hospitality,” the fat man responded gazing out the car’s darkened windows.
“If I’m in custody, what is the charge; if i may ask?”
“Manipulation of the Sovereign Currency of Mexico.” The portly man said simply without a trace of guile, watching Mordecaise’ face intently while he said it.
“Am I allowed a phone call” replied Mordecaise, raising his empty palm, more as command than than polite request.
“Cierto.” Mordecaise’ phone materialized in his hand, as a return gambit, he placed the phone in his jacket pocket, where it stayed.
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When Pasqual woke, it took some minutes to orient that he was on another continent; the smell of black coffee mixed with the petrichor of gentle rain outside his window. His bag had remained packed; his body reeked of travel odor and anxiety. The temperature was oppressive and location of the fan stand made sense once the blades began to purr - a shower and clean clothes anchored his appetite and encouraged his curiosity about sounds outside his door.
A powerfully petite woman greeted him amicably at the utility closet outside his door. “Chào buổi sáng” she chirped, meaning nothing at all to Pasqual but possibly hello.
Guided by instinct and smell, he pinched his fingers together miming gulps while pointing in the direction of the strong aroma of fresh brewed coffee; the pretty woman returned to her work pointing down the covered hallway with a knowing smile.
He entered the compact dining room, taking a seat closest to the door he’d entered - two young couples were engaged in serious destination research and took no notice of the bedraggled caffeine junky jonesing for a fix.
No longer the enchanting local ingenue from the night before, Tieh the homestay owner placed a piping hot glass of Ca Phe down with a menu and a distant smile in a warm kind of way before turning back to her staff and guests. Tieh’s brother, Luong Ngong stuck his head through the door and handed a folded paper to Tieh, disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared. Pasqual ordered eggs and waited; halfway through the finest cup of coffee Pasqual could remember, Tieh returned with his eggs and handed the folded paper to Pasqual explaining it was a contact who might be able to help with both of his inquiries.
Somehow the breakfast was more invigorating than the coffee elixir, yet Pasqual’s decision to return to his room resulted in another 8 hours of sleep, out of which he woke trembling from dreams he could feel as though still asleep, but of which he could recall nothing while sweating like a pig in the darkening room. Ravenously hungry Pasqual ventured out the door of his new home in search of food. The kitchen was dark and the dining room locked. He took his keys to the gate and passed out into the streets of a foreign nation. Stopping at the first restaurant he found with a sign he could decipher “Cafe Banh Mi Diámetro”, Pasqual stepped inside, took a seat and asked the waitress for a beer and a menu; then addressing her apparent confusion by miming the opening of a book; she returned a minute later with a menu. He chose “The Hoi An Buffalo Burger” with a boilermaker, though he had to explain the concoction, again pointing to the menu.
Finishing his meal Mordecaise’ “Mephisto” began chiming on his phone. “Hello, Boss,” was as far as Pasqual got, and then sat back in stunned silence taking notes quickly, punctuated with periodic “Holy shit’s”. When it was his turn, he asked “give me priorities, from hot to cold. I’ve only just come out from under the jet lag hood and won’t be renting wheels, until i know whether to hire a translator with a car or wing it on the local mopeds.” Though absorbed by long distance strategizing, when two out-of-uniform suits entered the bistro, Pasqual decided to have some fun. He advised Mordecaise that he’d call back, then called the pretty waitress over. He displayed the google translation where he had written “Please bring me my bill and include the tab for the gentlemen in the corner, explain to them that dinner was courtesy of a compatriot.” Leaving twice the amount of the bill on the table, Pasqual quickly rose and climbed into the cab that had just arrived at the cur b.
He gave the driver the address that Luong Ngong had given Tieh that morning, then sat low enough in his seat to observe the two sleuths to see if they had followed him or just fit the profile of professional goonsin the happenstance of a small town overrun with wealthy foreigners. The address on the note directed the cab out an artery East through rice fields toward what he thought was the beach; the taxi veered off just past a dog leg in the road leading into a small hamlet with older housing stock; the cab stopped in front of a weathered habitation deceptively tall with a traditional tile roof - a single lantern lit the covered porch. Getting out Pasqual paid the fare then turned to ask the driver to wait - it had pulled away.
Pasqual’s knock on a solid finely-crafted door opened to a birdlike man seemingly too slight to the task - “Xinh Chao Anh Pasqual,” · closing the massive door with but a breath. I am Trâu Bet, Ong Luong said that you would be calling with questions regarding an ancestor of yours, and information about a foreign resident of Hoi An who died in Hue 6 months ago. I hope you are rested from your travels and find some comfort in the cool of the night. Our climate can be disorienting.” The gentle motions of the man seem to guide Pasqual into a large room laden with powerful “color field” paintings that defied description as landscape, skyscape, or seascape or - unrelenting visual magnets - Trâu Bet waiting patiently while Pasqual feasted on the banquet of color.
When he finally sat down, a glass of fragrant tea appeared at the low table next to his chair. Trâu continued to study his guest; Pasqual had never worked as a artist model, but found the gaze of this artist disconcerting. Eventually he remembered the purpose of his visit and glad that language was not a barrier as he tried to explain the reasons he was searching for information about someone presumed dead for over 60 years. Trâu Bet listened with the same intensity that he had looked at Pasqual. When Pasqual finished his story, Trâu Bet wrote in a small sketch pad, then handed Pasqual a note with a name and address explaining, “Ong Pasqual the way you have described your uncle and his relationship to your family, it is easy to understand your reasons for wanting closure, I will look into the matter. As it happens, I knew Reynaldo Schmuck, and may have been the last person in Hoi An to speak with him; I drove him to the bus station when he went on retreat at Từ Hiếu Pagoda; this is the name and address of a homestay in Hue which has close contacts within the Pagoda, if anyone can help you gain information about Reynaldo’s death it will be the people at the Purple Haze Homestay. I have called you a cab that is waiting outside. It was a pleasure to meet you, thank you for coming; I hope you will come again.”
There was nothing left to say, and Pasqual followed Trâu Bet back to the entryway where, again the massive door seemed to open by fingertip and breath to the waiting taxi.
A little over 24 hours in Vietnam and Pasqual felt comfortable with what he’d accomplished but unprepared for what he found in the lit kitchen upon his return to the homestay - Tieh was beside herself in a fit of pique; her stolid wise-eyed mother stood on while the enchanting hostess from the night before railed tearful imprecations. Pasqual was at a loss, feeling very much the intruder within a cauldron of profound emotion - in an act of solidarity; he stepped to the mother’s shoulder; as she glanced up from her deep contemplation, Pasqual thumped his chest with a closed fist over his heart standing as close as he could for as long as possible; before retreating; he paused at the seat of Tieu’s beatific face and looked as deeply as he dared into the unmasked pain of her expression; all he could conjure was a slow shallow bow, Thai Style, hopefully honoring the depth of her sacred emotion; he left quietly to a nearly sleepless night alone in a foreign land.
The Pretenders “Working on a Chain Gang” chimed at 6:30 that next morning, “Bonjour mon ami,” Leslei was full of bon vivant, “What?” without the slightest curiosity is the best the groggy Pasqual could muster, muttering to his co-operative “Thanks for reaching out, it’d be better to talk later - are you safe, are you okay?” . .. ···
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jts 09/02/2021
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
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160221 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 8
Angela bit Guildern’s ear lobe then rose and was out the door for an early morning late run. She relished her new life minus Punta del Este and the Excelsior Bar & Grill, while Guildern could not get enough of her. Guildern’s phone began belting out Bob Marley’s “Get Up Stand Up”; the tight-knit affiliation of renegades working out of the Croc used ring tone handles, so 50 meters from the Croc, Angela knew that Pasqual was calling, which at this hour meant he could not reach Mordecaise directly and needed Guildern. Angela turned back and sprinted to the Croc, phone to her ear asking “Pasqual, are you okay?
“Yes - you? It’s been a busy 48 hours, and I’ve not been able to reach Mordecaise; there is nothing wrong here, just checking channels. How is Guildern’s arm, do you know anything of Mordecaise? Angela opted to say nothing about her move to Montevideo, instead offering Pasqual to help anyway she could, before she handed Guildern’s phone back to him; she looked deep into Guildern’s eyes then said by way of goodbye to Pasqual, “I’ll let him tell you about his arm, Please take good care of yourself;” handing the phone to Guildern, the two shared an unambiguous lover’s glance, before she pranced a boxer’s two-step back out the door to her interrupted run.
It took another 5 minutes for Guildern and Pasqual to update each other; Pasqual rang off unsure if he’d gained intelligence or muddied the waters.
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Angela returned from her run to find Guildern at the front door intently watching as Rojita swung Argentine Bolas over her head like any red-headed gorgon might if she wanted to helicopter back into the heavens using an earthly contraption of Renaissance design; her apparent target was a cowering Rojo behind stacks of wine casks near the stairway to the apartment.
Having none of this shit in her new home, Angela took a broom near the door and calmly began sweeping her way toward the occupied Amazonian; when in a blur, Angela pirouetted low Capoeira style plunging the broom handle neatly upward into the whirling trine, twining it instantly into a maypole of uniquely Uruguayan design. Guildern embraced the startled virago like a Panda might palm a spitting kitten.
“I often wondered what you did for entertainment when I was gone, ‘Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.’ - Oscar Wilde,” was all Angela muttered.
Eying the becalmed Rojita, Angela asked her as gently as she knew how, “Girl what in the fuck is wrong with you? You think ‘cause you sing like an Angel, you can act the fool too? If it was me, I’d fire your ass, but it ain’t my place, and Guildern won’t obey me like Rojo do you. Keep that in mind if you ever get bullshit with me.” Angela was not looking for an answer, and left the three of them to sort out what they could before opening; she still had sand between her toes from running on the beach and no idea what Pasqual had said about Vietnam
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The abogada Guildern sent - Luz de Ley arrived early at the elbow of one of the monolithic escorts who had met Mordecaise at the airport. “Señor Liszt, I’ve spoken with the Commandante, and if you will surrender your passport during the investigation; sign for a 100,000 MXN bond, you are free to go.” Sra. Ley was a native beauty of indeterminate age with a regal bearing; and waited patiently for Mordecaise to respond.
“I’d like to make a phone call before I decide; it may be more practical for me to accept the government’s hospitality a little longer before I commit that sort of Bond. Do you know any of the reasoning for making such an outrageous accusation?.” Sra, Ley was looking at her phone when he asked his question.
“Apparently it was an irregularity with your baggage claim, and customs declaration - your suitcase contained $25,000 USD which you did not declare.”
“I did not declare it because I have no checked luggage; nor anything but Uruguayan Pesos, a little over 500 UYU.” Sra Ley seemed surprised, if there were words to describe her expression. Mordecaise remembered that Gonzo Veneno had texted him something about tails at Aeropuerto CDMX; “Sra Ley, could you give me a few minutes to check about my connection in Mexico DF. With her affirmative nod, Mordecaise texted Gonzo as briefly as he could to explain his situation and find out if there were any photos that would explain the “frame” he was facing. Minutes later Mordecaise was reading a txt from Gonzo:
“Man am glad to hear frm u - fnd atchd phtos of sme gys boostng rcpt @ counter w/ur signtur + affidvt frm clrk statng sme · hve arprt police rpt if necess. fotos enclsd” Mordecaise brought this back to the counselor looking hopeful, providing context where helpful.
Sra. Ley was nodding into her phone when she took Mordecaise by his elbow guiding him through a labyrinth of hallways until he recognized the door of the Comandante from that morning, the door to his office read - “Comandante Fernando Gonzalez”. The door was answered by one half of the matching bookends from the aeropuerto. He and Sra. Ley were ushered back into the portly Comandante’s diminutive office. “Sra. Ley has informed me you have documentation that will help clarify this unfortunate introduction to our tranquil community; may I see the exculpatory evidence?” holding out his pinkish paw.
Mordecaise’ mind raced trying to fathom what could be compromised by this exchange, and because nothing had been said about his primary reason for being in Oaxaca, he determined it best to be as cooperative as possible, bringing the phone to Señor Gonzalez, opened to the appropriate screens. After a few moments of scrutiny the Commandante’s pursed lips turned to a warmish smile - “Clearly this might have become a great miscarriage of justice. If you will give me just a few more minutes of your time so that I may confer with my compadres at Aeropuerto MEX, I am certain all of this can be easily resolved. May I ask if you recognize either of the two gentlemen in these photos?” Mordecaise shrugged his shoulders and the Commandante needed no interpretation, but one half of the massive ever present escorts leaned down whispering in Señor Martinez’ ear - who nodded as the immovable mass glided out the room.
After a few tense minutes of murmured telephone exchanges, Pasqual and Sra. Ley were dismissed with a flick of the Comandante’s wrist after he had bowed ceremoniously and proffered Mordecaise his passport with what could be construed as an apology in an alternative universe. On their way out of the Police headquarters Mordecaise recognized one of the two from the photos being escorted in; the man he saw was visibly shaken, bruised and being led in the same doorway they’d just exited. Turning to his abogada, “One of them must’ve followed me from Mexico DF; I’d like to learn what the Commandante finds out in their “discussions.”
“I’ll see what I can do” is all the preoccupied advocate would commit to. “Where are you staying?” she asked, “Guildern mentioned that you had a contact here in the valley.”
“Let me see if my contact can be reached.” He took out his phone and was checking for messages when Carina Abejas strode up to him from out of the mist of pedestrians one might find in front of any municipal building in any city of the world; she reached up behind his startled neck to pull his bearded face down to where she nuzzled her mouth into his long beard and pulled his tongue into her mouth like an unreluctant morsel of exotic pasta at the end of a fine meal.
Sra. Ley was still on her phone but not oblivious to the carnal display of a near stranger and his perfect stranger client, nor that her focus was split in half. The powerfully compact newcomer handled her equally surprised client like any vaquera with livestock; when she surreptitiously withdrew a strong hand from under her native poncho and mingled supple fingers into the tangle of their facial embrace, then touched his lips as though quenching a candle or cautioning silence, all the while looking directly into Sra. Leys’ captivated glance. Reflecting on this event later, the counselor was never sure if the gesture was an invitation, or territorial declaration.
Mordecaise gathered his dignity and bowed deeply to his advocate; thanking her profusely and backing up in tow by this intimate stranger, miming the universal “I’ll call you” split fingers to his cheek for the benefit of the otherwise composed professional at the door to the police station; and climbed into Carina’s ancient vehicle of doubtful mechanical integrity with an obviously confused Satyr’s leer wrapped around his bearded grin.
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Leslei had climbed out of the porcelain bathtub ready to take on the world when “Get up Standup” began playing on her phone; standing naked as she was born to be, she answered as such, “I’m dripping wet from a long soak; I’m happy - keep it that way,” she smiled into the phone while searching for a towel.
“Well good on ya’, what do you know, or have you just been soaking since you arrived.” Pasqual had not forgotten the weekend they’d met at a Rasta Rave in the Mojave Desert at the height of the 1st wave of Covid deaths. Social distancing and practical precautions manifested in that enlightened gathering by way of front to back sex, creative prophylactic masks and much focus on herbal research for heightened immunity through diet and prayer. He and Angela had agreed to a relationship time-out the weekend he met Leslei and had spent 48 hours making love to rock and roll music amid the rocks of the Mojave Desert - so near, yet so far.
“Ya’ may want to take notes: Demsford Schmuck took a 20 year lease on the cottage where I am now staying - a fluke; he was making regular pilgrimages to Plum Village about 600 km North by Northwest from Aix; it’s not clear whether his interest was sectarian or aesthetic. There is a large body of his work specific to Aix, as well as sketchbooks full of drawings annotated “Plum Village,” he was no dilettante. I spoke on the phone with the sitting Bhikkhu of Plum Village, Thich Tok Longh trying to determine whether to go now or later. Demsford was comatose from a motorcycle accident when he was shipped back to Aix; he subsequently died from an intracerebral hemorrhage. I am waiting on permission from his estate to access the autopsy that was conducted in Aix. By all accounts, there were no suspicious circumstances; it’s access to his medical history that’s a little tangled, especially with Reynaldo’s death in Vietnam 6 months later; perhaps you can help with that?” Pasqual was accustomed to Leslei’s attention to detail but struggling with the disorientation of travel and the density of her report.
Like a tennis game between old friends Pasqual leaped in when the ball landed in his court,“It’s not clear what has happened to Mordecaise - he was jailed on arrival in Oaxaca; i just got a text from him that he’s free and alls well. We’re going to need a way to handshake info - I will not use ‘clouds’, they’re not secure, and this is no longer a routine estate; it’s beginning to look like a snowball gaining mass rolling through an avalanche - social media & email are no way to organize; any one of us could be neutralized in an instant. The two goons that waylaid Mordecaise could’ve been agents of corporate empire · My sense is that the ‘Al Qaeda’ model would be a more robust rubric, any thoughts?”
Leslei had been thinking along the same lines; the best, she asserted, was ‘hiding in plain sight; the last place they’d look’. Pasqual nodded to himself and suggested to Leslei, “coded transmissions on the fb newsfeed, is good, let’s normalize channels. You contact Angela and work out the details; we should include random key changes, keeping the whole thing as simple as possible. Good work girl - mindfulness may be our only friend · yes?” more by way of closing; they hung up on each other
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Mordecaise was butt naked in front of a fire pit outside the temezcal where they’d spent the afternoon discussing the death of Domhall Schmuck. After Carina explained her behavior at their introduction in front of the police headquarters, - he was deeply impressed and much calmed by her rational quick wittedness; what better cover than two long lost lovers unexpectedly reunited, however her explanation of Domhall’s last days beleaguered even the hyper-vigilant mind of Herr Liszt; his reacquaintance with the gentle magic of mezcal smoothed the tangles of the day and left him feeling curious and alert.
The lattice of shade from the setting sun through the Guaje grove of Carina’s Artist Colony created a dappled fabric of light and dark that helped Mordecaise frame connections about the disparate parts of this far flung puzzle which began as a phone call less than 2 weeks earlier. His regard for the Schmuck family had transfigured from the venal odor of commerce that normally explained his sideline estate investigations into a deeper tragedy about 3 dead orphans in a tragic world defined by the dead and dying of the past decade - he felt deep gratitude to be alive and standing where he was.
jts 16/02/2021
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
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240221 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 9
Pasqual lay sweating in his otherwise comfortable room at the homestay sorting through the parts of the case; skirting happy stories of his uncle Ernesto before the estrangement with his brother Jose, Pasqual’s adoptive father over a lousy 6 acre parcel of dirt. It was difficult to reconcile the happy faces of locals he had met thus far in Vietnam with anyone capable of ending his gentle uncle’s life. He understood violence having grown up in a border town during political changes that unleashed murder and mayhem under the color of authority - a term he learned volunteering in legal clinic for displaced families during the fascist administration of 2016-2020. He also understood that there was nothing to be gained by gnawing on his memories, late at night in a foreign country, while trying to winnow wheat from chaff on a complex and important case. He began breathing methodically, repeating mantras he and Angela had learned at a retreat for grieving parents while they were struggling to hold their marriage together in Uruguay during the 2nd wave of Covid deaths.
Hoping for a late afternoon nap, he opted to answer the knock at his door. It was Tieh Ngong holding a small teapot of fragrant tea, Pasqual attempted to conceal his happiness at seeing her - she confused him. “I thought this might be helpful. The weather can interfere with sleep if you’re not used to it.” She was dressed comfortably with concessions to the oppressive humidity that gathered steam around the setting sun like a train leaving a station loaded with boxcars of heat. He tried not to take notice of her easy beauty having traveled enough to know the reputation of white men in exotic lands. Her studied manners suggested she was more curious about his swarthy appearance than threatened. He asked if she would like to come in, but after leaving the teapot at the low table she returned to the doorway and perched with a frank evaluation of him and his obvious fatigue. “Are you sleeping okay in the heat?” asking like she might be asking about a price in a store rather than referring to a force of nature that felt like a grip around one’s throat.
“I’ve tried to cool using just the fan, but had to turn on the A/C to sleep. I read that heat can interfere with REM sleep; I apologize if the A/C gooses your bottom line.” She chuckled with amusement.
“What does that mean ‘goose the bottom line?” she asked. It was Pasqual’s turn to chuckle realizing what an accomplishment it was for her to master a foreign language so seamlessly without access to many cultural idioms, yet understanding the biological relationship of heat to sleep.
Gazing at her poise in the doorway, Pasqual tried to explain, “Think of ‘goosing the bottom line’ like the slap of a grandmother on the butt of a small child who wandered too far off the curb of a busy street; ” Pasqual enjoyed watching this woman think while having no idea what she thought; much different than the hardened women of the West though there was something very wary in her manner, like the women of the West. Pasqual had almost forgotten what comfort could be found in the company of a beautiful woman’s attention.
Their transient moment of intimacy was broken by footfalls in the narrow hallway. It was one of the diners from the night before at the “Cafe Banh Mi Diametro;” the continuing coincidence heightened Pasqual’s concern about being trailed, given the nature of his visit. Rather than engage this unwelcomed stranger, Pasqual excused himself with a slight bow while nodding to Tieh, he remarked, “Can we continue this another time?” He closed the door on a conversation he’d rather not have. Behind the closed door Pasqual determined it would be a good time to explore more of Hoi An and so gathered his shoulder pack for a bicycle ride. He exited and excused himself past the discussion, peeled a bicycle from the lineup and while appearing to scroll through his telephone, snapped a photo of the interloper for future reference.
Hoi An was a wonderful place to bicycle - flat with slow moving scooters. Transporting necessities encouraged responsible driving habits and reflexive courtesy aided a flow of traffic similar to the tidal flows of estuaries lapping the long shoreline of the ancient city. There was a comfortable truce between foreigners and locals not much different than grazing herds on any savanna in the world where resources fluctuated between feast or famine. The Covid pandemic had been repeatedly curtailed in Vietnam, though the population was only marginally vaccinated. The rapid mutations of the 2nd Wave taxed the limits of science for most developing economies, and Vietnam was no different. Containment was possible by brute force quarantines and an educated population that easily cooperated in projects of mutual self interest.
The foreign population was a mixed bag; Pasqual was long past the presumption that travel translated into tolerance and warm-heartedness; his short time in Vietnam confirmed his working hypothesis. Almost from the boarding gate of his flight, through to Da Nang, Pasqual’s “Neoliberal/Covertfascist” radar was on high alert. He found himself surrounded by unctuous, well-dressed travelers - refugees from late stage capitalism escaping the failed business models of their birth nations, taking every last shekel of extracted profit, while they searched the world over for “opportunities” to mine depressed countries and train the “little brown brother’s” in the virtues of anarchistic capitalism, just as they had been indoctrinated.
In and amongst the amoral mercantile predators was the flotsam and jetsam of a broken civilization - earnest entrepreneurs; honest workers; and loving souls searching for a path out from the rapacious paradigm of “infinite growth” in a “finite world” that was causing untenable environmental havoc in an unstable political climate, and an increasingly unstable ecology.
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Pasqual was able to bicycle off some anxiety, the rest evaporated by breathing in the ceaseless beauty of a land long loved and tended by tireless bodies. He wandered alleys and cement trails in the direction of where he thought Trâu Bet’s studio might be, not wanting to call. Pasqual was curious about an unannounced welcome. After kilometers in the general direction of Trâu’s studio, the map on Pasqual’s phone began to intersect with landmarks he thought he might remember and pulled up in front of the memorable entryway and massive door from his first visit; he secured his mount and knocked. Again, as though he’d been expected the door breathed open to reveal the calm intensity of Trâu Bet’s placid gaze and a clear invitation to enter.
The light of day added a much different perspective to the artist’s work, but Pasqual was also felt that many of the pieces were entirely different than what he viewed only a few nights earlier.
Trâu waited while Pasqual finished his inspection and had sat down in the chair where it was indicated he should sit - the same low table and fragrant cup of tea. “What have you discovered about your uncle since we last spoke?” Trâu asked as though it was the same conversation after a short pause.
“Perhaps I am being impatient,” Pasqual said quietly. “I know that you said you would contact me when you had any information; as you know my uncle Jose Ortega was listed as MIA during the Tet Offensive; I have other matters which require me to journey to Hue which may coincide, and I was hoping there might be research I could do if you had learned anything useful from your sources.” Pasqual paused, not wanting to press. He had learned from a distant aunt that Jose - a devoutly religious man - was deeply conflicted about his service to the military and was in the process of filing for “Conscientious Objector” when assigned to Hue where had visited the Root Pagoda at Từ Hiếu a number of times prior to the offensive he was listed “Missing in Action.”
Pasqual had read much from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle at Mordecaise insistence, and the quote by Sherlock Holmes to Dr. Watson - “How many times have I said to you that when you when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains however improbable, must be the truth?” remained tattooed to the inside of Pasqual’s skull.
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Leslei found her decision to stay at the cottage meshed well with the investigation; Madame Ouvière, when prodded, produced a cache of postal letters to Demsford from before and after his death; neither commented to the other about the legality of such an exchange, each woman seeming to grasp the sincerity of the other. From the letters, Leslie discovered that Demsford and Reynaldo were in close contact with each other and in close spiritual agreement about the times they were living; apparently leading Reynaldo to pick Hoi An as a home because of its close proximity to Hue; Thich Nhat Hanh’s Từ Hiếu Root Pagoda and Jose’s disappearance.
As promised, Archdai Tryump; The Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon did return: 1st through his solicitor; then municipal functionaries; and lastly through commercial threats from the websites which used ‘canned’ legalize about resorting to the “unnecessary recourse of fiancial sanctions,” which Leslei, on a deeply considered whim, stymied all further controversy with a single signature transferring the remaining 8 years of Demsford’s original lease to her.
The assault on her domestic tranquility rankled Leslei’s keen sense of fair play, though inexplicably depressed amidst the conifers within an idyll and in view of Cezanne’s Mont Sainte-Victoire, she combined her ennui with her ability to induce an existential trance state and focused on a hard-target computer search of Archdai Tryump and all associated capital assets. ‘The Corporate Putsch’ had been very successful after Y2k, in part due to primitive “Data Warehousing” technology that transferred “handshakes” mindlessly from server to server; but hubris knows no bounds, especially the techno variety, and so an AI induced “byte drift” began an inexorable sifting through antiquated algorithms like a digital Sahara might cross potholed interstates of a different age; ultimately; she wasn’t even sure if the subject of her original search, Archdai Tryump, could even be aware of how close his ‘old money’ ties brought him to within such close proximity of the greatest accumulation of virtual wealth the world had ever known.
Empires’ “conceit about inevitable invulnerability” allowed this accretion to gradually cascade rivulets of previously sacrosanct private capital using technological gravity to archive these lost bytes into the “public domain;” incidental trickles of 3rd, 4th . .. place decimal points of monetary value eventually accumulated into a vast ocean of cash value. The infinite growth paradigm conceived of, but did not anticipate the unforeseen intersection of the programmably diabolical ability of Artificial Intelligence to obfuscate and confuse. So when its only command was to hide assets, AI did this masterfully · hence “The Pot,” the only name given to an obscure file @.314.org in the public domain, which ironically remained within the “Public Domain.” Over time, the value of hard currency for this file exceeded many times over the combined assets of the 100 richest individuals on the planet - 100s of quadrillions of dollars, virtually indistinguishable from digital “white noise.”
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Leslei called Guildern to confirm if what she was seeing was ‘straight up’; and if so - relay what she had discovered to Mordecaise and Pasqual.
Guildern’s reply was prompt; “Just from looking at the .pdf file, we’d be wise to cease telephonic transmission and try a pure telepathic channel for security’s sake. You know I heard that is what killed Elon Musk - while fucking around with Kurzwell’s upload horse-shit, someone ran 220v straight in - that’s gotta hurt.” Guildern’s checkered background included stints at the Google campus, before Amazon accomplished its hostile takeover at the peak of the death swarm from Covid-19; b.1.1.13 of 2027, but Guildern’s wry humor was lost on Leslei who was just looking for guidance on how to proceed. Hearing silence on a long distance transmission Guildern ventured, “Let me see if I can contact those parties and get clarification on your order; will that help?”
“Sir, thank you very much - it is just the sort of help I need. Thank you very much for your kind assistance,” and Leslei hung up, comfortable knowing the most got said with the least.
Almost as though their conversation had been participated; she hung up to a knock which opened to the tattooed leer of the Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon; Archdai Tryump, holding high a bottle of Champagne Krug Clos d'Ambonnay 1995 - as an amateur sommelier she recognized the smell of leverage with each bubble she might coax from such a lush disposable. “Good of you to knock; your solicitor’s last message suggested my belongings would be on the doorstep when I returned. What do you want?” This was not spoken as an invitation, but from the business side of a closed portcullis.
Gifted with apparently eternal conceit, Monsieur Tryump replied, “two glasses if you have them;” Leslei’s ambiguous body language fanned his flame and he jutted his Gucci slipper into the doorframe with such docile supplication, she condescended to his entree - who didn’t want to savor a bottle of Krug Clos d'Ambonnay 1995 with royalty? miming the Hawaiian Shaka tippling and combat/peace sign to the eyes for “look there” she thumbed over her shoulder, dismissing her new factotum and his precious liquid booty - and for those moments upon his arrival, she was pure mongoose; he a deaf, dumb and blind Cobra.
Leaning into this comedic opera while waiting for his return from the kitchen, Leslei settled into the sofa reaching behind her shoulder into the bookcase and pulling down a rolled cigarette from amongst the 1st editions. She laid the joint in plain view on the coffee table and unbuttoned her chemise to its optimum decollete. Like any good help, the Duke returned promptly and quietly with a bucket of ice, the bottle, two whiskey tumblers, and a dish towel. The Earl of Avignon mimed a magician pulling up his sleeves and rotating his palms in the gesture of all disingenuous magus; he carefully wrapped the dish towel around the bottle’s neck spiraling it deep into the ice, and in an act of unctuous aplomb, the Duke lifted the joint up to his lighter and lit it as masterfully as any opium den-master, inhaled deeply a number of times, blowing the smoke back out through his nostrils prior to each inhalation.
Had Leslei a heart, she might have cautioned the peer that what he was ravenously inhaling was an admixture of: opium, hasish, churras, polyploid cannabis and trace amounts of DMT - her kind of compassion suggested it best to share this after the fact. Leaning over the nearly comatose might-have-been masher, she nestled her cheek to his chest to hear respiration; rising slightly and lifting one of his eyelids she evaluated pupil dilation; then holding her fingers to his wrist, her oddly calibrated breath determined that he was in fact deeply stoned, but quite alive.
Liberating his smart phone from its diamond crusted sling, Leslei jacked his device to her PC and using a DOS “backdoor” that every digital device possessed but few knew existed, she mirrored his entire library to her hard drive by the time his eyelids began to flutter. What Archdai Tryump perceived as he regained semi-consciousness, was a beautiful woman he had arrived to conquer, sitting demurely beside him - she disheveled with a concerned expression - he exposed with his semi-erect phallus in her gently stroking palm.
jts 23/02/2021
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
all rights reserved
030321 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 10, part ii
Lammele Dama kept offices in Kathmandu, Nepal; Paris, France and Archer City, Texas. Though not equidistant, each had a northern latitude valence - at 81, Lammele was at peace with his world of minor importance. He had taken the long view when young, content with intermittent amusement that had only grown in complexity, consistency and polish. The practice of Law, however seedy and much-maligned of late, had retained more than a veneer of righteousness for him from its origins - it was this grain that Lammele hewed to for the entire arc of his career. Mr. Dama thrived on the chatter of his diffuse sources, where he was settled in his seat of passing time perusing the news with calm curiosity - searching for nexus from many loci. When the aged telephone ring of his working relic beckoned, Lammele put down his 2nd double-Whiskey Sour and 1st Cohiba Short to answer, “Yes?” he asked leaning into the phone as though he could hear better that way.
