Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Read online

  ***

  "You realized Sondheim was on the phone, yes?"

  Mia nodded her head affirmatively.

  "He is, for your edification, what I term a shadowy legal gadfly." I hated using the word edification, a painful reminder of the chant sung to a well-known rock anthem by the Yalemouth rugby team while slamming us about on the pitch [We will, we will, edify you!]. "He's connected at all levels of governments, both domestic and foreign, and considers the United Nations his personal fruit market when shopping for customers."

  Mia cocked her head in what I wished was a playful way. "He's a spy?"

  "Well, ahem, I'm not so sure what he is. He's just," I searched for a word that would remind me neither of Yalemouth or rugby, "essential."

  "To whom, my Baron?"

  I did my best to strike a pensive mood and respond thoughtfully. "To those who supply fresh fruit during global intercourse."

  "I see." Mia stared at me for several moments while I practiced a brooding expression. In the few short weeks since her hiring I was pleased at how quickly she adapted to the routine of the household and the frenetic pace of my lifestyle. More to the point, I was startled at how rapidly I fell in love with her. "What shall we do now, my Baron?"

  "What else is there to do? Book me first class, one way, on the earliest morning flight to Montego Bay."

  "From where?"

  "We'll take our time and drive to Florida."

  "Logan Airport is much closer, my Baron. Three hours away."

  "Logan it is, then."

  The remainder of the evening was spent printing and gathering the electronic documents Sondheim e-mailed. Mia, under my watchful gaze, bound the portfolio, carefully placing it within a manila folder discreetly labeled Import/Export/Import Again. She then departed to finalize travel arrangements, leaving me to retreat to the master bedroom where I packed my traveling valise with a slim assortment of polo shirts and cargo shorts.

  In my mind's eye the trip more resembled a safari than a roundup. Certainly I had to rope Bridgework into a state of physical stagnation, but my intuition advised that great lengths would be required to do so. The man was a contemporary Midas, all powerful and self-funded. Jamaica would be the starting point of what could be an enduring rodeo. At the very least, it was wise to travel lightly. The less luggage to contend with would ease the burden in determining what to do with Bridgework once gaining possession of him. I set aside Sondheim's dossier for in-flight reading and climbed into bed for a brief night's rest.

  It was a shade past four when Smudgely drew back the awning, permitting the soft light of the night lamp to greet me. "You need to leave the Manor within the hour, sir."

  "Fine, Smudgely. Bring the Duesy around. One large cup of tea to go. My gear is stowed by the door. I'll be at the portico in forty-five minutes."

  "Sir."

  "Oh, and Smudgely, be sure Mia's prepared for the trip. She'll be returning the Duesy to home after dropping me off."

  "Yes, sir. I believe she's waiting at the portico for you as we speak, enjoying a Gauloises." The studious valet nodded before leaving me my privacy. Grooming myself in my usual orderly and efficient manner, I was fully dressed and bounding down the main staircase well within the allotted time.

  "Your valise is on the backseat, sir," Smudgely said, handing me my attaché case containing my laptop, notepad, pens and various traveling medicines. "And you'll need this," he added, propping my favorite porkpie hat atop my head. "Success be yours, sir."

  "I certainly hope so, Smudgely. I don't believe either of us could withstand a repeat of the Bostwick affair."

  "No sir. We shan't even dwell on the possibility."

  "Fair enough." I shook hands with my able man. "Tumultuous Manor is in your capable care."

  Pausing momentarily at the top step of the staircase I could not help but admire the view. The Duesy, with Mia in the passenger seat, idled in the cul-de-sac facing points south. Smudgely left the cloth top in the up position, it being a cool yet refreshing summer dawn, and Mia had wrapped her hair in a bonnet of flashing silver. She stared straight ahead through a pair of fashionable sunglasses, her elbow resting gracefully upon the top of the open window. I was entranced with the vision and, adjusting the porkpie to better cover my noggin, stepped slowly into the arcing rays of the new day.

  Beyond my beloved Duesy and the fair Mia within her stood an ornate marble fountain in the center of the grass turnabout, its water bubbling softly over and down the multiple tiers to its base, which had come to serve as a wishing well for a plethora of regional charities. Beyond this aquatic sculpture ran one of the many stonewalls crisscrossing the estate, rising from the hilly grounds like massive spines of half-buried skeletal sauropods. Hayfields, soon to yield their crop to the shears of local farmers, were the next barrier of seclusion surrounding my storied domicile, ringing the property outward and pushing up against the thick forest mixture of deciduous and evergreen trees. From there, the view was limited solely to the conditions set forth by Mother Nature.

  To the west lay the Green Mountains of Vermont. Eastward, the Rangeley-Stratton peaks of Maine would become clearer once the valley fog lifted. To the north, past the undulating acreage devoted to apple orchards, the gentle ruggedness and outstanding breweries of mes grands amis du Québec awaited my occasional pilgrimage. Finally, points south brought one into contact -- whether desired or not -- with the unsympathetic realities of our modern age. Redeeming itself as a portal to world travel and culture, one took seriously southbound forays to Boston and New York, quite cognizant that the simplicities of life in Faithful Hill were quickly erased on the large and complex metropolitan blackboards.

  Departure from Tumultuous Manor brought with it a case of the vapors, and this morning's dose of ironic sadness was no different from those previously afflicting me. Still, I walked to the driver's side of the purring Duesy with chin held high and a leaping rhythm in my heart. For as much as I enjoyed my hermitage here in the White Mountains of northern New England, the call of Sondheim served as a reminder that, indeed, I was yet a vital part of the world's rotation. In spite of my best efforts to attain invisibility, I remained intricately connected with humankind. How could I not be cheered by the draw of a new adventure? I was alive and mobile, on yet another quest which would be recorded in my journals upon returning to the rock I knew as home.

  "Take my pulse," I said, extending my right arm to Mia after slipping the car in gear.

  "Oh, my Baron!" It would be the only words spoken until reaching our destination.

  We coasted off the mountainside, navigating the broad winding gravel drive as it passed from the verdant fields touching and forming its shoulders, and into the forest below. The thundering engine of the Duesenberg J -- 420 cubic-inches pounding forth 265 horsepower -- rumbled through the burgeoning trees as if the voice of an unseen massif god calling from upon high:

  I am here! Baron von dek Horn! Deciphering and correcting a random civilization once more!

  The eight cylinders fired hard that morning, sluing down the interstate at a comfortable rate of travel as I thoroughly enjoyed the mug of tea Smudgely thoughtfully prepared. In the glint of the morning sun I caught a vision of Mia beside me, her bonnet rippling in the breeze from the partially-open window, her gaze forward as if she were peering into the future to see what it held for her.

  Perhaps it is me she hopes to spy there!

  With that thought, I rallied another few clicks of acceleration out of the old beast and seized the moment with a great joy. The prospect of splicing myself into the fiber of excitement and intrigue once again -- and all the unforeseen, unanticipated delights which it might hold -- quelled my fear of leaving the terra firma of Tumultuous Manor.

  We traversed the byzantine entrance to Logan shortly after eight and, with the frantic gesturing of Mia's delicate hands, I guided the front end of the Duesy to the edge of the curb beneath the towering concrete overhang fronting the Slipstream Green kiosk.

&
nbsp; "Slipstream Green?" I raised my voice amid the screeching of tires, horn-honking and odd rumbling of jets taking off for the heavens above.

  "It is the most environmentally sensitive airline company in business today, my Baron." Mia slipped out the passenger door, removing my attaché and valise from the backseat. "You should be proud in doing your part to save our planet."

  "I am indeed doing such already, Miss Kolpaux, by sorting out Bridgework's dysgenic behavior." I exited the pride of Indianapolis, long ago the site of Duesenberg manufacturing, and shook my fist at a taxi which passed marginally close. "As long as its first class is no different from the others, I'm all well and good, I suppose."

  Mia gave me a numinous smile and carefully slipped the handles of my luggage onto my fingertips. "You should be proud, my Baron."

  "Are you sure you wouldn't like to accompany me?"

  "I'm sure, my Baron."

  An older man approached from my right, sporting long gray hair in a ponytail and hiding the majority of his wrinkly forehead beneath a worn-out tie-dyed bandanna. Studying me for a few moments, he stroked the lengthy portions of his whitish goatee as if in deep thought. I believed by ignoring him I would be spared contact, but that was not to be. "Say," he said in a gravelly voice, as though bearing a gullet full of pebbles, "ain't you that there Keith Richards guitarist fella?"

  "No," I replied firmly, "you must have me mistaken for someone else. Perhaps Keith Richards circa nineteen seventy, for example." I turned back to Mia, wanting to approach her on an emotional level once more.

  "No, no," the older man protested, "you're him, alright. You're that stoned British invasion fella, for sure."

  "No, my good man, I assure you I'm not. Now be on your way."

  "See? You not only look like 'im, but you speak British like too, all proper and polite."

  I drew a deep breath and quickly checked my watch. "I'm American as George Washington, Edgar Allen Poe and Estes Kefauver. My accent is what it is. Unfortunately for you, I'm not your Keith Richards fellow. Do you note a skull ring on my finger?"

  The old man inspected my extended digits. "Hey, everyone," he called out to passersby, "it's that stoned guitarist fella! Right here!"

  "Oh my," I gasped and turned back to Mia. "Are you sure you won't reconsider?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Well, then, may we exchange pecks on the cheek?"

  "No, I'm afraid we may not, my Baron."

  "A handshake? Air kiss? High five? Fist bump?"

  "A handshake will be sufficient." She gave me a one-time pump and circled the front of the vehicle. "I wish you luck on your travels, my Baron. I will stay in touch."

  A forlorn tide swept over my mind when she pulled away, the Duesy shooting an almighty roar from its manifold as it disappeared around the concrete bend into a mixture of autos, cabs and shuttles. Mia had been in my employ for only two-and-a-half weeks, and I was clearly in love with her. "Onward once again, shattered heart," I whispered to myself.

  "So, can I have your autograph, guitar fella?"

  "Why not?" I shrugged, removing the fountain pen from my breast pocket. "Paper?"

  The graybeard presented an airline envelope containing a crinkled boarding pass. On its outer panel, I carefully wrote To a devoted fan, faithfully yours, Charles Necktie.

  Yes, it was good to be a small leaf in the tossed salad bowl of life once again.