I could shorten these acknowledgments by mentioning only those family members who did not support the search, but I’m no fool; I know what’s good for me. To all the Kurzweils who gather at my sister-in-law Nancy’s Long Island Seders: Todah rabah. To all the Schmidts, Dussarts, and Howorths who gather at Françoise’s Christmas dinners: Merci infiniment. Special thanks also go to: my cousin (and West Coast bodyguard) Ruth MacKay; to my mother, Edith Kurzweil, for preserving, among other things, fifteen linear feet of my father’s photo albums, a ten-year cache of his private notebooks, dealer invoices for every car she has owned since 1965, and pretty much all letters and photographs she has ever received from her children (Ron, Viv, and me) and her stepchildren (Anna and Antonia, Lenny and Peter). Kurzweils and Schmidts tend to be pack rats, a weakness I have shamelessly exploited while piecing together the early sections of this chronicle.
My son might not possess the archival predisposition of his older relatives, but he, too, has helped me greatly, serving as my in-house editor on matters of popular culture that might otherwise elude a guy in his fifties.
A few dozen friends also offered editorial counsel. Thanks go out to Paul Hechinger, Dan Dubno and Lisa Bernstein, Jay Kernis, Andrew Kerr and Cyndi Doyle, the Joukowskys (every last one of them), the aptly labeled “geniuses” and “creatives” at the Providence Place Apple Store, Steve O’Shea, Rosemary Mahoney, Becky and Dan Okrent (the latter a master of pacing, punctuation, and bone-dry gin martinis), David Nishimura (who deepened indelibly my knowledge of fountain pens), Bill Powers and Martha Sherrill, Malcolm Pollack and Nina Phillips, Harvey Sachs, Jonathan Barzilay, Arthur Riss (for his steady supply of Melville quotations and anagrammatical aliases), Kirstin and Michael Allio, Al Venditto and Rachel Atlas, Heather and Ronald Florence, Linda Carter, Carrie Cook, Alec and Liz Stansell, Ashley Dubois, Dan Miller, Grace Shohet and David Brownstein, Michael Spalter, and Michael Boyer.
Students and teachers at dozens of schools offered unfiltered insights into the nature of bullying. I received especially nuanced assistance from fourth, fifth, and sixth graders at the following schools: the Ten Acre Country Day School, the John D. Runkle School, the Hunnewell School, the Dalton School, the Wheeler School, the Moses Brown School, the J. F. Deering Middle School, the Fenn School, the Field School, the Meadowbrook School, the Paideia School, the Weston Public Schools, and the Bates, Shutesbury, Wenham, Bonner, Brooklyn, Buker, Hanaford, Gardiners Avenue, Merrill, Garvin, and James H. Eldredge elementary schools.
I’ve been racking up editorial debt ever since a crude iteration of this book reached the in-box of my editors at Harper, David Hirshey and Barry Harbaugh, and their indefatigable assistant, Sydney Pierce. The structural and stylistic improvements they made to the manuscript were reinforced later on by copyeditor Mary Beth Constant and by the intermittent counsel of Beth Silfin and Jonathan Burnham. In inventorying the assistance I received from Team Harper, I’d be remiss if I failed to insert a special callout to Fritz Metsch, the book’s designer. For those readers who share Fritz’s (and my) love of colophons, I’d also like to give a nod to William Martin (1757–1830), the type designer responsible for Bulmer, the transitional typeface in which this book is set. Bulmer, like the Harper staff, is distinguished by precision, balance, and a seraphic pizzazz that’s just a little bit edgy. Two other editors beyond the publishing house helped remove countless blemishes: Susan Morrison, of The New Yorker, and my dear friend Karyn Marcus.
Finally, I would like thank the three most patient women associated with the search for Cesar: my assistant, Alex Dunwoodie (for all things administrative); my literary agent, Liz Darhansoff (for all things transactional); and my wife, Françoise Dussart (for all things full stop). The very first day I met Françoise near the widow’s quarters at Yuendumu she rescued me from trouble. She has been rescuing me ever since. As her Warlpiri aunties would say, Yati!
And finally—yes, that’s right, the last finally was premature—there’s one more individual who needs to be recognized. I do so without irony.
Thank you, Cesar. You have taught me that the lies we tell others always begin with the lies we tell ourselves.
PHOTOGRAPH SECTION
{Courtesy of Aiglon College, Switzerland}
The boys of Belvedere, 1972. I’m seated on the ground, far left. Cesar looms directly above me, fourth row from the bottom.
{© Laurent Brodier}
The Dents du Midi, as seen from Aiglon. I spent every winter of my early childhood in this Alpine wonderland, then returned, as a ten-year-old, for a fateful year at the unconventional boarding school that introduced me to Cesar.
{Courtesy of Edith Kurzweil}
Robert Kurzweil, my father, hiked the Alps in good weather and in bad. He was twenty-three when these photos were taken.
{Courtesy of Edith Kurzweil}
Robert Kurzweil, thirty years later, in Villars with his youngest child—me, age three. My father died two years after this photo was taken, at the age of fifty-five.
{Courtesy of Edith Kurzweil}
Another picture of us in Villars. At least, I’d like to think I’m standing with my father. (The hiking boots on the unidentified polar bear appear to match Dad’s.)
{© Ronald Schmidt (left) © Patrick Jantet (right)}
Gravestones make me queasy. The clinical term for this aversion, taphephobia, is commonly tied to a fear of being buried alive. My anxiety, however, has never focused on internment. On the contrary, I avoid cemeteries because of the loss they resurrect. For the longest time, I was incapable of approaching my father’s headstone, seen on left, or the marker in the Villars cemetery honoring my Belvedere buddy Woody Anderson (1959–1972). While I have subdued my dread of cemeteries, these images will always fill me with sorrow. I find my father’s epitaph, a lamentation pulled from the Psalms, especially grim.
John Corlette (“JC”), the founder of Aiglon (second from left), often took his charges on “expeditions.” This photo was taken along the Côte d’Azur during one such trip.
{Courtesy of Aiglon College, Switzerland, © Erik Friedl from the film Aiglon College}
The year I attended Aiglon, JC undertook a yearlong, around-the-world voyage of personal discovery, and placed his school in the care of Group Captain Watts, a decorated World War II fighter pilot, who walked about campus with a chunk of shrapnel in his shoulder.
Luia Forbes, my beloved elocution teacher, was a retired opera diva who shared JC’s passion for Eastern mysticism. Lady Forbes taugh me to ee-NUN-see-ate even though her own diction was compromised by loose-fitting dentures.
Jacques Stump, my ski instructor, started the first independent ski school in Switzerland the year I attended Aiglon.
{Courtesy of Aiglon College, Switzerland}
Aiglon’s founding headmaster, a chronic asthmatic, put great stock in physical training and manual labor. On the left, morning PT. On the right, Cesar mugs for the camera as one of our housemates shovels.
{Courtesy of Aiglon College, Switzerland}
Misbehavior at Aiglon often led to “laps,” known more formally as punishment runs. The numbers to the left of the listed offenses indicate how many mile-long circuits the malefactor was required to complete.
{© Patrick Roberts, courtesy of Edith Kurzweil}
Many of my happiest memories of Aiglon are tied to all manner of Alpine adventure.
{Courtesy of Edith Kurzweil}
One of my weekly letters home.
{© Mathias Braschler}
Robert von Badische, Seventy-fourth Grand Master of the Knights of Malta, and his wife, Princess Audrey, posed for Mathias Braschler in 1999, while the loan program bearing his name was in full swing. When I showed my son this photo, he called attention to the prince’s provocative hand gesture.
{New York Post(left)}
Before serving as the figurehead for the Badische Trust Consortium, Prince Robert conducted dozens of bogus knighting ceremonies at various churches around Manhattan. The more ambitious eve
nts included engraved announcements, a boys choir, and (as seen above right) a white-gloved, sword-wielding honor guard.
{New York Post(left)}
The theatricality of the investiture ceremonies relied on the talents of the Baron Moncrieffe (seen above). Moncrieffe claimed to be a Serbian aristocrat, but a birth certificate unearthed by criminal investigator Dennis M. Quilty revealed that the onetime department-store window dresser was born in Toledo, Ohio, and that his name was George Ritchie Englert Jr.
{Bernard Gotfryd/Getty Images (bottom left)}
The roster of celebrities duped by the prince and the baron included (clockwise, from top left) Pope Paul VI, the Queen Mother, “Sir” Anthony Quinn, and “Sir” Sammy Davis Jr.
{New York Post(left)}
Before his fraud conviction in 2002, Brian Sherry identified himself as Colonel Sherry, Major Sherry, Sir Brian Sherry, Prince Brian, Graf von Sherry, and Colonel Sherry-Berwick. After completing his prison sentence, he shed the regalia and royal titles, founded a synagogue, and started calling himself “Reb Benzi.”
As the check to the left shows, welfare payments supported the administrator of the multibillion-dollar loan program.
Like his colleagues, Sherry came from nonaristocratic stock, as the document to the right confirms. My wife, noting that the future felon was ushered into the world by a man named Port and a woman named Sherry, said, “I guess Johnnie Walker and Dom Pérignon were out of town.”
Fraud is in the details. To give their scheme the air of legitimacy, the swindlers named their nonexistent Trust after a defunct financial institution. The real Badische Bank failed in 1935.
The Kingdom of Mombessa, the principal source of the Trust’s fictive assets, had no such backstory. As this fax from King Henri-François Mazzamba suggests, logos and letterhead had to be designed and tweaked before the $50 billion deed could be printed, signed, and witnessed.
Mombessa may not exist, but its capital does. That said, the only image I could find of the “City of Mondimbi” appears on a postage stamp issued by the Belgian Congo in the early 1930s.
{© Patrick Conner}
The “Cesareum.” My file box of search ephemera includes a mug shot of my roommate; a postcard of our dormitory; a 1971 cassette recording of Jesus Christ Superstar; a ski boot match safe; the sheet music for an anthem composed for Prince Robert’s sham order of knights; a Parker 45 fountain pen; a Sugus candy; a cigar box containing forty-year-old trinkets; a foosball man; the patch from my Aiglon blazer; my rank badge; the notebook my father filled as a ten-year-old (in 1920); letters I wrote while a boarder; a page from a Manila phone book; Sir Brian Sherry’s gold-embossed visiting card; and a replica of Augustus of Prima Porta, a gift from my son, Max.
This is probably the clearest graphic expression of the loan program Cesar pitched to his clients. None of the projects he represented received funding.
Self-styled knight of Malta, Robert von Badische (ageunknown) in 1998.
{Courtesy of Edith Kurzweil}
Self-styled knight of Malta, Maximilian Kurzweil (age four) in 1998.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Ferrante Ferranti
ALLEN KURZWEIL was educated at Yale and the University of Rome. He is a novelist, journalist, teacher, and inventor. He has written for numerous publications, including the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and Vanity Fair, and has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Fulbright Commission, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the Center for Scholars and Writers at the New York Public Library. He lives in Rhode Island. To learn more, visit allenkurzweil.com.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com
ALSO BY ALLEN KURZWEIL
A Case of Curiosities
The Grand Complication
Leon and the Spitting Image
Leon and the Champion Chip
Potato Chip Science (with Max Kurzweil)
CREDITS
Cover design by Jarrod Taylor
Cover photograph courtesy of Aiglon College, Switzerland
COPYRIGHT
WHIPPING BOY. Copyright © 2015 by Allen Kurzweil. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
“Trial Before Pilate” from Jesus Christ Superstar. Words by Tim Rice. Music by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Copyright © 1969, 1970 UNIVERSAL/MCA MUSIC LTD. Copyright Renewed. All Rights for the U.S. and Canada. Controlled and Administered by UNIVERSAL MUSIC CORP. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.
“Smooth Operator.” Written by: Helen Adu & Ray St. John. Copyright © 1984 Sony/ATV Music Publishing UK Ltd., Angel Music Ltd., Peer Music Ltd. All rights on behalf of Sony/ATV Music Publishing UK Ltd. and Angel Music Ltd. administered by Sony/ATV Songs LLC (BMI), 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
“Knights of Malta Anthem.” Words and music by Sir Jay Chernis. Copyright © 1974 Denton & Haskins Corp. Used by permission.
“Pretty Boy Floyd.” Words and music by Woody Guthrie. Copyright © 1963 Woody Guthrie Publications (BMI). Copyright renewed. All rights administered by BMG Rights Management (US) LLC. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.
FIRST EDITION
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EPub Edition January 2015 ISBN 9780062269508
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*Cesar was born Cesar Augusto Viana III, but had his middle name Anglicized while at Aiglon.
*To appreciate the material properties of the bread served at Aiglon, consider this observation, made by a student reflecting on an ill-fated hiking expedition: “The weather turned and we were trapped there for two days and food had to be dropped from a ski plane. I still remember the net baskets of school bread breaking on impact.” The payload itself was undamaged.
*Before embracing vegetarianism, Lady Forbes was an accomplished chef with a special fondness for organ meats. Her bilingual cookery book, Dinner Is Served (Lima, Peru, 1941), contains recipes for haggis, tongue with almonds, veal kidney a la Liégeoise, and (her signature dish) thin-sliced calf-brain cocktail sandwiches.
*A technical clarification: Before advances in synthetics, the “skins” fitted to the bottoms of skis to enhance traction were generally fashioned from the pelts of baby seals. (A pup’s angled hair glides over snow when pushed forward and grips snow when pulled back.)
*My memory is faulty. Subsequent interviews with housemates reveal that wedgies were, on
occasion, dispensed during my time at Aiglon.
*My son and I later settled our confectionary dispute by purchasing a large tin of Sugus from an eBay vendor in Thailand. After a series of blind taste tests, Max grudgingly acknowledged the incontrovertible: Sugus is vastly superior to Starburst.
*Years later, I asked Goodman why he had been so forthcoming. After noting that he’d removed all privileged material from the files and had checked with his client the baron before granting me with access, he added, “It’s simple, Allen. We’ve all had bullies. Helping you seemed the right thing to do.”
*The term wheatie is derived from the sheaves of grain on the reverse side of Lincoln pennies minted between 1909 and 1958.
*Princess Audrey died in late February 2000. A world authority on the history of miniature doll costumes—an expertise that informed her unique sense of fashion and, in particular, a lifelong passion for exotic feathers and lace—she was also a pioneer in the field of “psychic dentistry,” a branch of oral medicine specializing in the telepathic transformation of base-metal dental fillings into gold. (Her motto: “Gold-mine yourself!”) Later in life, Audrey extended her medical practice to include chromotherapy. Working out of an office above Carnegie Hall, “Dr. Audrey Kargere, PhD, of Stockholm, Sweden” treated all manner of illness—congestion, ulcers, anemia, chronic flatulence, etc.—by the application of colored lenses and lights. In 1949, she documented her breakthroughs as a “color healer” in Color and Personality. The monograph is still in print.
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