measurements, but the machine scans the client in the changing room without his realizing. No, no, Dottore, you can forget us tailors. Weâve had our time.â
âDottoreâ was what Giuliano Diacoâs father had called him, even before Adrian had begun his dissertation. The title had been passed down a generation intact. It was indeed possible that Diacoâs days were numbered. Only Weynfeldtâs older friends went there. And they were becoming ever fewer. His younger friends couldnât afford it. And the really rich people he knew, collectors for the most part, went to Caraceni in Milan or Savile Row in London.
Adrian had registered the first sign that Diaco was in trouble some while back. He had suddenly started stocking accessories. Entering the discreet premises, on the first floor of a retail building in one of the best locations, you were greeted by stands full of colorful neckties. A vitrine held leather articlesâkey cases, wallets and change purses, belts etc.âand another displayed products from an unknown cosmetics brand, created exclusively for Diaco.
On any other day, the prospect that Diacoâs would soon cease to exist, and that yet another law firm would take over the premises, would have depressed Weynfeldt. But today his mood was not easily dented. The prospect of dinner with Lorena had made him impervious to the grim realities of everyday life.
That morning he had corrected the initial proofs of the catalogue, appalled by the quality of the printing. He had spent over an hour on the phone to the manager of the Grand Imperial Hotel, in whose ballroom their auctions were always held. The date which till now they had promised him, verbally, was suddenly unavailable due to a clash of bookings. And Véronique had bombarded him with questions after he asked her to research Vallottonâs prices over the last decade on the Internet. He stonewalled in response since something still didnât feel right about La Salamandre . Still, there was no doubt the picture would look better on the cover than Hodlerâs Landscape with Telegraph Posts .
Some days that would all have dampened his mood. Not that he would have been bad-tempered; he was much too well bred to let his moods show. But it would have made him slower and more laconic.
Slower, yes. It had taken years for Weynfeldt to realize that his âslow-motion days,â as he thought of them, the days he felt as if heâd run aground, these days were what other people called depression. He had discovered this reading a novel, as the protagonistâs emotional state was described. It wouldnât have occurred to him otherwise. And he didnât have anyone he could talk to about his feelings.
But today, although it had all the makings of a slow-motion day, everything felt light and breezy.
To make sure Diaco felt the same way Adrian ordered two suits, âtransitional clothesâ as his mother would have called them.
He ate a light, late lunch, alone, in a self-service vegetarian restaurant, and spent the rest of the afternoon dealing with the date problem and writing an expertâs report on a Lake Geneva sunrise by Ferdinand Hodler for a colleague in the New York branch.
It was early as he left the office, wishing Véronique a good evening; he wanted to go home and change before going out. He didnât always, but today he would.
Châteaubriand had only eight tables. It was more like an elegant, private apartment than a restaurant. It was furnished with antiques; dimmed Venetian glass chandeliers provided a relaxing light throughout, and a multitude of table lamps and sconces ensured an intimate atmosphere at the tables and in the niches.
It was a pleasant, cozy place; the pictures hanging on the walls were the only thing not to Weynfeldtâs taste.
The restaurant didnât have a bar at which he might have waited for Lorena, and he was led directly to the place he had reserved, a
âDottoreâ was what Giuliano Diacoâs father had called him, even before Adrian had begun his dissertation. The title had been passed down a generation intact. It was indeed possible that Diacoâs days were numbered. Only Weynfeldtâs older friends went there. And they were becoming ever fewer. His younger friends couldnât afford it. And the really rich people he knew, collectors for the most part, went to Caraceni in Milan or Savile Row in London.
Adrian had registered the first sign that Diaco was in trouble some while back. He had suddenly started stocking accessories. Entering the discreet premises, on the first floor of a retail building in one of the best locations, you were greeted by stands full of colorful neckties. A vitrine held leather articlesâkey cases, wallets and change purses, belts etc.âand another displayed products from an unknown cosmetics brand, created exclusively for Diaco.
On any other day, the prospect that Diacoâs would soon cease to exist, and that yet another law firm would take over the premises, would have depressed Weynfeldt. But today his mood was not easily dented. The prospect of dinner with Lorena had made him impervious to the grim realities of everyday life.
That morning he had corrected the initial proofs of the catalogue, appalled by the quality of the printing. He had spent over an hour on the phone to the manager of the Grand Imperial Hotel, in whose ballroom their auctions were always held. The date which till now they had promised him, verbally, was suddenly unavailable due to a clash of bookings. And Véronique had bombarded him with questions after he asked her to research Vallottonâs prices over the last decade on the Internet. He stonewalled in response since something still didnât feel right about La Salamandre . Still, there was no doubt the picture would look better on the cover than Hodlerâs Landscape with Telegraph Posts .
Some days that would all have dampened his mood. Not that he would have been bad-tempered; he was much too well bred to let his moods show. But it would have made him slower and more laconic.
Slower, yes. It had taken years for Weynfeldt to realize that his âslow-motion days,â as he thought of them, the days he felt as if heâd run aground, these days were what other people called depression. He had discovered this reading a novel, as the protagonistâs emotional state was described. It wouldnât have occurred to him otherwise. And he didnât have anyone he could talk to about his feelings.
But today, although it had all the makings of a slow-motion day, everything felt light and breezy.
To make sure Diaco felt the same way Adrian ordered two suits, âtransitional clothesâ as his mother would have called them.
He ate a light, late lunch, alone, in a self-service vegetarian restaurant, and spent the rest of the afternoon dealing with the date problem and writing an expertâs report on a Lake Geneva sunrise by Ferdinand Hodler for a colleague in the New York branch.
It was early as he left the office, wishing Véronique a good evening; he wanted to go home and change before going out. He didnât always, but today he would.
Châteaubriand had only eight tables. It was more like an elegant, private apartment than a restaurant. It was furnished with antiques; dimmed Venetian glass chandeliers provided a relaxing light throughout, and a multitude of table lamps and sconces ensured an intimate atmosphere at the tables and in the niches.
It was a pleasant, cozy place; the pictures hanging on the walls were the only thing not to Weynfeldtâs taste.
The restaurant didnât have a bar at which he might have waited for Lorena, and he was led directly to the place he had reserved, a
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