way.”
“Interesting.”
“Anyway, you guys probably have a lot in common. I’ll leave you to it.”
Leave us to what exactly? Hayden wondered.
“Oh, by the way, Hayden,” Aaron said in a hushed tone. “I’ll talk to you about that ‘thing’ later.” Aaron gave Hayden a devilish look as he left.
“So you play Cyrano to Aaron Cannondale, huh?” Feegan said, somewhat sarcastically. “What’s that like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he an asshole? I’ve heard he can be. A lot of these guys like him can be. You know, this could be an interesting story in itself – the voice behind Aaron Cannondale. The guy who keeps him on cue. Whadya think?”
“Not a good idea,” Hayden said, annoyed that for one, Aaron would even invite this guy to his party to pick over random conversations by some pretty high-level people; and two, that Aaron had opened the door to this kind of scrutiny. It was reckless, and Aaron knew it. But what galled Hayden most was that Aaron seemed to have done it deliberately.
“So what’s this ‘thing’ Aaron just asked you about?” Feegan asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, guy. You’re his speechwriter. I know you don’t know me from Adam, but throw me a bone here.”
“I’m serious. I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
Feegan gave Hayden an incredulous smile. “Okay, pal, I can respect that, but if you ever want to talk, give me shout. Here’s my card.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Feegan walked away to eavesdrop on another conversation. Maybe Feegan was a plant. Maybe Aaron staged the whole thing to assess Hayden’s loyalty. If so, Hayden was not happy. Life was too short for those kind of games. Hayden didn’t like feeling like he was some sort of pawn.
He made his way to the other side of the room where a portion of Aaron’s art collection hung on a burgundy-colored wall. A Chinese oil painting caught his eye. The subject was a solitary, rural Chinese farmer with a puffed-up face. He wore a black peasant outfit. His hands and feet were tiny. The plaque on the wall next to the painting read: “Youth.”
“I like it,” a man standing next to Hayden said. “Grotesque, yet funny in a way. It’s one of his better works.”
“Who?”
“The artist, Pan Dehai. He spent ten years painting farmers like this. They were people he knew when he lived in Kunming. A lot of people compare him to Botero.”
“Youth?” Hayden said, looking at the painting. “I suppose he’s saying that it’s all been sapped out of this guy.”
“That’s probably the general idea. Who’s to say?”
“You know a lot about art.”
“I should, I’m surrounded by it every day. I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Thomas Mason. I’m the guest of honor,” Mason said with a wink. “You thought it was chicken man over there, didn’t you? Legitimate mistake.”
Hayden laughed. Mason’s name sounded familiar, as if he should know it. Just then, Aaron walked up and gave Hayden a wink.
“Ah, Hayden, I see you have met possibly the world’s only remaining Renaissance man. Thomas has the best job going. One of the best kept secrets.”
“What do you do?” Hayden asked sheepishly, feeling that he should already know.
“He’s the U.S. ambassador to the Vatican,” Aaron volunteered.
“I wouldn’t mind being that when I grow up,” Hayden said. “What do I need to do now to prepare?”
“Go to church, give money, write a couple of books, be a Eucharistic minister, I don’t know. In my case, the current administration didn’t know where else to put me. Somebody found out that I could sing the words to Nessun Dorma in Italian, and I guess it was settled. Will you excuse me for a moment? There’s someone I must say hello to.”
“Good man,” Aaron said of Mason. “And modest. I meant it when I said the guy is a Renaissance man. He paints, writes, and is a leading authority on the Etruscan language. He managed to do all that while
“Interesting.”
“Anyway, you guys probably have a lot in common. I’ll leave you to it.”
Leave us to what exactly? Hayden wondered.
“Oh, by the way, Hayden,” Aaron said in a hushed tone. “I’ll talk to you about that ‘thing’ later.” Aaron gave Hayden a devilish look as he left.
“So you play Cyrano to Aaron Cannondale, huh?” Feegan said, somewhat sarcastically. “What’s that like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he an asshole? I’ve heard he can be. A lot of these guys like him can be. You know, this could be an interesting story in itself – the voice behind Aaron Cannondale. The guy who keeps him on cue. Whadya think?”
“Not a good idea,” Hayden said, annoyed that for one, Aaron would even invite this guy to his party to pick over random conversations by some pretty high-level people; and two, that Aaron had opened the door to this kind of scrutiny. It was reckless, and Aaron knew it. But what galled Hayden most was that Aaron seemed to have done it deliberately.
“So what’s this ‘thing’ Aaron just asked you about?” Feegan asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, guy. You’re his speechwriter. I know you don’t know me from Adam, but throw me a bone here.”
“I’m serious. I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
Feegan gave Hayden an incredulous smile. “Okay, pal, I can respect that, but if you ever want to talk, give me shout. Here’s my card.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Feegan walked away to eavesdrop on another conversation. Maybe Feegan was a plant. Maybe Aaron staged the whole thing to assess Hayden’s loyalty. If so, Hayden was not happy. Life was too short for those kind of games. Hayden didn’t like feeling like he was some sort of pawn.
He made his way to the other side of the room where a portion of Aaron’s art collection hung on a burgundy-colored wall. A Chinese oil painting caught his eye. The subject was a solitary, rural Chinese farmer with a puffed-up face. He wore a black peasant outfit. His hands and feet were tiny. The plaque on the wall next to the painting read: “Youth.”
“I like it,” a man standing next to Hayden said. “Grotesque, yet funny in a way. It’s one of his better works.”
“Who?”
“The artist, Pan Dehai. He spent ten years painting farmers like this. They were people he knew when he lived in Kunming. A lot of people compare him to Botero.”
“Youth?” Hayden said, looking at the painting. “I suppose he’s saying that it’s all been sapped out of this guy.”
“That’s probably the general idea. Who’s to say?”
“You know a lot about art.”
“I should, I’m surrounded by it every day. I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Thomas Mason. I’m the guest of honor,” Mason said with a wink. “You thought it was chicken man over there, didn’t you? Legitimate mistake.”
Hayden laughed. Mason’s name sounded familiar, as if he should know it. Just then, Aaron walked up and gave Hayden a wink.
“Ah, Hayden, I see you have met possibly the world’s only remaining Renaissance man. Thomas has the best job going. One of the best kept secrets.”
“What do you do?” Hayden asked sheepishly, feeling that he should already know.
“He’s the U.S. ambassador to the Vatican,” Aaron volunteered.
“I wouldn’t mind being that when I grow up,” Hayden said. “What do I need to do now to prepare?”
“Go to church, give money, write a couple of books, be a Eucharistic minister, I don’t know. In my case, the current administration didn’t know where else to put me. Somebody found out that I could sing the words to Nessun Dorma in Italian, and I guess it was settled. Will you excuse me for a moment? There’s someone I must say hello to.”
“Good man,” Aaron said of Mason. “And modest. I meant it when I said the guy is a Renaissance man. He paints, writes, and is a leading authority on the Etruscan language. He managed to do all that while
Similar Books
