So Much Fire and So Many Plans

by Aaron S Gallagher

  “I said ‘moves’,” she corrected.

  “I am aware. But that’s the ultimate reason. He’s amused by them. They divert him. And you move millions around to placate his amusement. Do not get me wrong,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall her protestation, “it’s a good enough reason. Age alone isn’t a justification to collect paintings, nor is historicity. Art should be about emotion. Ossirian understands this. It is a lesson that comes at a cost. David is a beautiful sculpture, but if it moved people, they wouldn’t be photographing his balls, now would they?”

  She giggled. “Perhaps not.

  They arrived at the restaurant and the driver let them out. Toefler walked with her to the door where they were opened by two doormen in red uniforms. “I didn’t think Tantris was open this early.”

  “They aren’t,” he said. “But I know the chef.”

  “Of course you do.”

  A maître d’ led them to a table and the barman took their orders. They were in the center of the immense dining area. The chef, a burly man with a curly fringe of red hair under his tall hat, approached. He bowed. Toefler wave this away. In German he said, “Please, Claud. Do not do that. I have asked you a hundred times.”

  The chef grinned, his face lighting up. “But of course. And it irritates you. And so I do it.”

  “Claud Scheuler, may I present Carolyn Delgado. Carolyn, Chef Claud Scheuler.”

  Scheuler bowed, and Carolyn ducked her head. “Lovely to meet you, Chef.”

  “And you, Frau Delgado. Lord Toefler, I have a menu prepared,” Chef Scheuler informed them, smiling at Toefler’s frown. “I would tell you but I don’t want to. Let it be a surprise.”

  Toefler chuckled. “And if I asked you?”

  “I still would not tell you, of course,” the Chef said off-handedly. “Because it would irk you.”

  “Consider me irked,” Toefler said with a grin. To Carolyn he said, “We were at University together.”

  “I gathered a familiarity between you,” she said with a smile.

  “Yes. We were roommates. Myself and the eminent boy-heir. While I toiled in the laundry and in the kitchens, he took a helicopter to his lands each weekend. A spoiled little-”

  “Careful, Claud,” Toefler said with a fond smile. “I know your secrets, you know.” He looked at Carolyn and mouthed, “Bed-wetter.”

  She rolled her eyes and gave Claud a sympathetic look. Claud shrugged. “It happens when you get that drunk on the apricot brandy your roommate smuggles out of his father’s cabinets. But him?” Claud said. He pointed with one finger, hiding his mouth with the back of the other hand. “He snores,” he stage-whispered.

  She snickered. “I’m aware.”

  “Oh, you have no idea. He used to wake the other boys. And we had a corner room,” Claud lamented. “It was so bad we used to tie him down and gag him.”

  Toefler raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t to quell the snoring,” he said quietly.

  Claud colored, and smiled shyly at Carolyn. With mock-sadness he lamented, “Well, one forgets. It has been so long.”

  “It wasn’t that long,” Toefler said pointedly.

  Claud threw his head back and roared laughter. “It is good to see you again, my friend. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have several cats and a monkey to skin for your supper. Lord Toefler. Frau Delgado.”

  He bowed and retreated.

  She raised her glass of champagne, supplied by the maître d’ while waiting for the drinks. Toefler raised his. “Old friends.”

  “Old friends.” She sipped.

  The luncheon was worth the drive, she thought. The delicacy of the morsels provided by the Micheline-starred chef may very well have been made of cat and monkey, but it was by far the best food she’d eaten outside of Brazil.

  They finished the exquisite meal and were chatting over an after-lunch whiskey.

  “And how are you, my friend? And how is our painter?”

  “Well enough,” she said. “He’s working his way across Europe.”

  “I’d heard you had a bit of trouble even getting him out of Brazil.”

  She nodded. “The government didn’t want to admit he existed.”

  “The most famous painter in Brazil?”

  “No,” she said. “The American government. They maintained that he left without any papers. Or permission. They wouldn’t let us transport him anywhere from Brazil without at least an ID. It was easier instead to take him to the embassy. We had him deported to America where they were able to find his details. He’s got a passport now, American to his ire, in his social security number, and I’ve still got lawyers trying to settle the bills. Not to mention his foster parents. They’re claiming damages and trying to sue him. Claim that he ruined their reputations.”

  “In what way?”

  “When he left the assumption was that he ran away. After seven years they had him declared legally dead. Then the press posited that they’d killed him for his money. After it turned out that he was both alive and fairly wealthy, they sued.”

  “How did he handle it?”

  “He didn’t. And if I have my way, he never will. He doesn’t even know they’re still clamoring for his money.”

  “Does he have any money?”

  “No,” she said with a smile. “He’s got a power of attorney that gives me control of his assets. They’re still suing a man who has nothing.”

  Toefler pursed his lips. “Perhaps you should sue them. For custody.”

  She snorted laughter. “Ye Gods, what would I do with him?”

  “You seem to be managing fine so far.” He sipped his whiskey. “And how are you?”

  She frowned at him.

  He waved the glass. “You’re in charge of a corporation which makes millions. You’re moving the art world every time you give an exhibition. You’ve collected your doctorate. Universities are clamoring for you as a lecturer. Publishers wish to give you book deals. These things are known. What isn’t known is how you are. What you need.”

  “I have everything I could want,” she said, but her gaze dropped from his face to the table, where she studied her glass.

  He shook his head. “If you’re going to lie to me, then there’s little point in asking.”

  “What is your point, Hans?”

  He rose and signaled the maître d’, who brought him a leather folder. Toefler opened it and sighed. He removed a wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket, extracted several crisp bills, and put them in the folder.

  “This is for you gentlemen. I don’t care what that bed-wetting bastard said. You deserve to be paid, even if his swill wasn’t worth charging us.” He handed the folder to the maître d’, who bowed.

  “Very gracious, Lord Toefler,” the man intoned. “If you need anything else-”

  “No, thank you. Just the car, if you’d be so kind.”

  “Very good.”

  The man left as Toefler turned to Carolyn. “Shall we?”

  She allowed him to help her out of the chair and they left the restaurant. After a tip to the doormen, Toefler opened the door of the car himself.

  “The Lenbachhaus, if you please, Michael.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The car accelerated smoothly, pulling into the early afternoon traffic. “I still need to change.”

  “You don’t need to,” Toefler said.

  She watched him stare out the window. Something had changed, but she didn’t understand it.

  “Why did you want to know?”

  “What’s that?” he asked, without looking away from the street.

  “How I was.”

  “That’s a good question. Why would I want to know?” His words were clipped now; irritated. Even edged with anger.

  She stared at him. in all the time they’d been acquainted she’d seen many sides to him; this was something new. She’d never seen him angry.

  “You asked me if I were all right. I am all right.”

  “Are you?”

/>   “Hans, what did I do?”

  “Nothing,” he said. He glanced at her. “No one ever asks you that.”

  “If I’m all right?”

  “Ossirian doesn’t ask.”

  “No,” she said. “You know his ways. He isn’t terribly concerned with worldly matters. Less so with people. He doesn’t understand emotional turmoil. He shies from interconnection with as much enthusiasm as he craves the physical.”

  “I am aware.”

  “Why does that bother you?”

  He turned to her. “Why doesn’t it bother you? He doesn’t notice you. He barely sees you anymore.”

  “We live together.”

  “Do you? Or do you happen to live in the same place?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What are you getting at, Hans?”

  He turned fully to her, the look on his face something she couldn’t quite define. Displeasure, that much was obvious. All else was a mystery to her.

  “My family is very large,” he said. “I have brothers and sisters. I have aunts, uncles, grandparents. My father may have passed, but my mother lives yet. I have nieces and nephews. And yet, no children of my own. No wife of my own.”

  She frowned, puzzled. “I… I never thought you were the type.”

  “To enjoy family? To marry?”

  “To choose but one person.”

  He gave her the ghost of a smile. “Perhaps I am not. But again, perhaps you are wrong.”

  Her skin prickled. “Am I?”

  He looked out the window. “The… the estate is grand,” he said hesitantly, and it was another sound she’d never heard in his voice. “The land. The quiet. The trees as far as you can see. Quite like your Brazil, if you look properly. Not as humid, of course, and there’s snow year round on the peaks, but the valley is… the valley is sublime in the evening, with the light for the dying sun.”

  She watched him curiously.

  “The house is… well,” he temporized, “the palace, is delightful. The art collection is splendid. The sculptures are… the- the garden is…”

  He trailed off.

  “Hans?”

  He turned to her, the anguish and trepidation plain on his face. “You… would you care to come? I promise, you would love it as much as I. We…”

  He broke off.

  She touched him. His arm thrummed like a wire full of current. “Hans, are you-”

  “Marry me,” he blurted, and blushed. “Would you… could you see us becoming… married, Carolyn?”

  She sat back, eyes wide.

  He rushed ahead, the desperation and tension plain upon his face. “I-I could see us, enjoined. The parties, the- the winters. There are fires and celebrations and- Carolyn, Ossirian doesn’t… he can’t… but I. I would- I would… I do care for you. I would give you anything you desire. I know you want for nothing. Need for nothing. But… that’s the physical. The worldly aspect of life. I can give you little you cannot purchase yourself. Ossirian’s work has given you comfortable enough a life as money can provide, but… Carolyn… Carolita,” he implored, using the nickname again. “What about you? Does he give you that which you need most? How is your heart? What of… of love?”

  She swallowed and looked out her own window. They were approaching the museum. “Hans, I… it’s not that…”

  He took her hand. She looked at it, could feel him shaking. “I can give you a good life.”

  “I have a good life, Hans,” she said as kindly as she could. “I like the life I have. I don’t need anything else.”

  “We’re speaking of want,” he said. He removed his hand. “And I suppose you are as well, in a way. I take your meaning.”

  “I don’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know that, my dear.”

  They reached the museum. She said, “I do love you, Hans. You know that I do. But what brought this about? Do you love me enough to marry me?”

  “I believe I do.”

  She didn’t say anything to that, and he colored and looked away. It was answer enough.

  After changing her dress in the manager’s office, she joined Ossirian, his face ruddy with color and his grin merrily twinkling. “My Muse,” he called, gesturing with a glass of champagne. “You are radiant.”

  “As are you, my painter,” she said, joining him. She touched his cheek. “The ladies kept you busy all this time?”

  Ossirian grinned wider. “They were very… imaginative. You should have joined us.”

  “I had lunch with Toefler,” she said.

  “Ah! And how is the esteemed Lord Toefler?”

  “Irked,” Toefler said from behind them, “that you keep calling me ‘Lord’.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Ossirian said. “Sorry, my Lord.”

  Toefler gave Carolyn a sour look. “Is he always like this?”

  “Of course he is,” she said. “And you know it.”

  “I do,” Toefler said. A ghost of his smile graced his lips and vanished. “And I know how you are.”

  “Leave it alone, Hans,” Carolyn said.

  Ossirian gestured, a sweeping, grand arc of the arm, encompassing all. “It’s time for a drink. Soon the throng of uncultured swine shall engulf us and we’ll we up to our noses in shit… I mean opinions.”

  “By all means,” Toefler said, “let us drink.”

  Ossirian led them to the lavish spread of food, which he ignored, and went to the bar where he explained what he wanted. The barmen stared at him. Ossirian sighed with impatience. “Trago de caña,” he said with exaggerated lip movement in his adopted Portuguese. “Now.”

  Carolyn said in German, “The private reserve, behind the cooler, please.”

  One of the barmen bent and found the hidden cache. He opened the bottle, reaching for a glass. Ossirian plucked it from him. “Thank you,” he said, again in Portuguese, which Carolyn echoed.

  They walked a short distance away. Carolyn could see the crowds of people outside the exhibit hall, held in place by a narrow velvet rope and Teutonic rigidity, for there were no guards. She had no doubt that they would stand there until precisely eight o’clock. If they came in and her watch read otherwise, she would assume her watch was incorrect.

  “When did you learn to speak German?” Toefler asked her as they walked.

  “I’m hardly fluent,” she said. “But it’s easier. I seem to have a gift for languages.”

  Ossirian said, “You have many gifts, my Muse. Not the least of which is understanding.”

  “What is it that I understand?”

  Ossirian took a swallow and passed her the bottle. Her lips quirked as she put it to her lips and followed suit. Like teenagers sneaking a beer behind the house, she passed the bottle to Toefler, who drank deeply. “You understand what it is I need,” Ossirian said.

  Toefler’s face clouded over as he handed the bottle back to Ossirian. “You seem to think that’s enough.”

  “It is enough for me.”

  “Sometimes you’re a perfect ass,” Toefler said heatedly.

  “Nobody is perfect,” Ossirian said gravely, “but one improves with practice.”

  Toefler snorted laughter and looked away. “I cannot believe you.”

  “And yet I believe in you,” Ossirian intoned. “Belief is a product of faith. If you’ve no faith, why have you come to worship at my altar?”

  “Why else would I be here but to bask in the glow of your ego?”

  “Perhaps you’re hoping some of my adoration will rub off on you. As other qualities have.”

  Toefler raised an eyebrow. “I share none of your qualities.”

  “You’re more like me than not,” Ossirian said with a grin. “Like it or not.”

  “I dislike it.”

  “I quite enjoy it, myself,” Carolyn said with a devious smile. “The more like Ossirian you are the more loveable you are.”

  She could tell it was the wrong thing to say. Toefler’s face fell as though the strings holding it up had been cut. His lips thinned. He tur
ned away.

  “Hans,” she began, but Ossirian took her arm.

  “Let him go,” Ossirian said in a gentle voice.

  Toefler stalked away toward the office, but turned right and went out the front, brushing past the admiring throng of art lovers and purchasers of what they assumed was art because it was expensive.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why let him go?”

  “Because his heart hurts.”

  “How do you know that?” She stared at him, startled by his insight.

  “I can tell. I’ve known for a while.”

  Carolyn stared at the entrance of the museum. “Oh?”

  Ossirian swallowed more rum and handed her the bottle. “Of course. I know what it looks like, to have a part of your soul bleed.”

  “Yes you do,” she said, staring after Toefler. “Could you help him?”

  “I cannot. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Each man must fix himself.”

  She rounded on him. “But he helped you.”

  “He did,” Ossirian agreed. “But I wasn’t missing a part of me. I had everything I needed. I did not know how to reconcile it. But Hans is missing part of himself. And I have no idea what that part might be.”

  Carolyn swallowed. “Then what do we do?”

  “We wait.” Ossirian said. “If he heals, he does. If not, we are still here. We will give him anything he needs.”

  Carolyn said nothing.

  The murmur of the crowd became louder as the throng of waiting people at last gushed forth like the bursting of a dam, the noise rushing over her, enveloping her, and isolating her. She was still staring at the door hours later as Ossirian held forth to a waiting crowd and the gallery ebbed and flowed around them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “He asked you to marry him.”

  It was full dark now, and they couldn’t see one another. Their senses were restricted to touch and sound, taste and feel. Their skin together, damp, wrapped in silken linens. The smell of their sweat and exertions. The sound of their voices. Her head lay upon his thigh; his hand stroked her hair.

  “He did.”

  “You didn’t know he was in love with you?”

  She shrugged against his leg. “I didn’t believe him. And besides…”

  “Ossirian.”