His soul was sheathed in barnacles, his eyes black and empty as infinite space, his pupils so large and lifeless that they seemed to suck in light like a singularity.
“In some ways I actually prefer the Parisian whores,” he went on. “Maybe one day I’ll take you with me. I know a wonderful spot at the Place de la Contrescarpe. Best
maison close
on the Left Bank.”
Claude rolled his eyes at the way Edward gave the words a nasally accent. It seemed odd that he could speak the lingo at all. He had no talent or appreciation for languages. As boys at the Jesuit high school, they were subjected to hours of grueling college preparatory coursework and innumerable fire and brimstone exhortations on Cain and Abel, but while Claude succeeded at his studies, graduating near the top of his class, Edward proved a complete mediocrity, always struggling to earn “a gentleman’s C.” Somehow he cheated his way through Latin, which was compulsory for all students. His lack of intellectual curiosity was seen not as laziness or stupidity but as a personal affront to the Jesuits’ love of learning, and for his constant and intentional butchery of Virgil, the priests made Edward stay after school to translate entire chapters of
The Aeneid
, to no avail. He couldn’t understand a word of it, didn’t know Pyrrhus from Priam, a hawk from a handsaw, and like a lot of frustrated adolescent boys, Edward vowed to get even with his teachers.
To his credit, it didn’t take him long to amass an enviable fortune and to lord it over those same penniless priests who, in the days to come, were always looking to kiss the feet of some generous benefactor. By the time he was thirty, Edward owned a heavily wooded forty-acre lot in Avon. He conscripted a European architect with a dubious past to design a house of glass and steel that looked like a cross between a medieval castle and an iceberg, his very own Fortress of Solitude. On a promontory overlooking a dale, he built an infinity swimming pool, a tennis court with a red clay surface, a putting green and, some distance from the house, the pretty little grotto where, at night, his wife could light candles and prostrate herself before Catholic statuary. On the north end of the property, he constructed two large stables where he kept six impeccably groomed Danish Warmbloods that he showed on special occasions—state fairs and parades and children’s birthday parties. In short, he created a suburban fiefdom and crowned himself petty dictator … but a dictator whose throne could easily be usurped. For years Claude has been laying the groundwork. He knows this tyrant all too well, knows he is a man of many weaknesses. Now well into middle age, Edward is still very much a child, a sensualist blinded by the degenerative disease of narcissism.
“These trips abroad have become a necessity,” Edward said with a baleful smile, sinking into the chair where Claude sits now. The king’s throne. “You have no idea what I’ve been through this year. My wife has become a terrible burden. She burns through my money.
Burns
through it.” He takes a long, contemplative puff on his cigar. Above the rim of his glass and through the sheen of blue smoke, he stares at Claude and after apregnant pause says, “Maybe it’s time I finally got rid of her. I can only pray someone will take her off my hands, someone more suited to the job …”
IV
How much time elapses before Gonzago actually dies, Claude cannot say; the animal makes no sound at all, no strangled cries of torment, but at some point in the night, after finishing his third glass of absinthe, Claude notices the dog sprawled across the rug, motionless, eyes bulging from its skull, tongue hanging heavy and wet from the corner of its mouth. In that alien silence devoid of the dog’s demonic laughter, Claude feels the alcohol cascading into the deep fissures of his brain. Though he is not a superstitious man and has always made a friend of reason and
“In some ways I actually prefer the Parisian whores,” he went on. “Maybe one day I’ll take you with me. I know a wonderful spot at the Place de la Contrescarpe. Best
maison close
on the Left Bank.”
Claude rolled his eyes at the way Edward gave the words a nasally accent. It seemed odd that he could speak the lingo at all. He had no talent or appreciation for languages. As boys at the Jesuit high school, they were subjected to hours of grueling college preparatory coursework and innumerable fire and brimstone exhortations on Cain and Abel, but while Claude succeeded at his studies, graduating near the top of his class, Edward proved a complete mediocrity, always struggling to earn “a gentleman’s C.” Somehow he cheated his way through Latin, which was compulsory for all students. His lack of intellectual curiosity was seen not as laziness or stupidity but as a personal affront to the Jesuits’ love of learning, and for his constant and intentional butchery of Virgil, the priests made Edward stay after school to translate entire chapters of
The Aeneid
, to no avail. He couldn’t understand a word of it, didn’t know Pyrrhus from Priam, a hawk from a handsaw, and like a lot of frustrated adolescent boys, Edward vowed to get even with his teachers.
To his credit, it didn’t take him long to amass an enviable fortune and to lord it over those same penniless priests who, in the days to come, were always looking to kiss the feet of some generous benefactor. By the time he was thirty, Edward owned a heavily wooded forty-acre lot in Avon. He conscripted a European architect with a dubious past to design a house of glass and steel that looked like a cross between a medieval castle and an iceberg, his very own Fortress of Solitude. On a promontory overlooking a dale, he built an infinity swimming pool, a tennis court with a red clay surface, a putting green and, some distance from the house, the pretty little grotto where, at night, his wife could light candles and prostrate herself before Catholic statuary. On the north end of the property, he constructed two large stables where he kept six impeccably groomed Danish Warmbloods that he showed on special occasions—state fairs and parades and children’s birthday parties. In short, he created a suburban fiefdom and crowned himself petty dictator … but a dictator whose throne could easily be usurped. For years Claude has been laying the groundwork. He knows this tyrant all too well, knows he is a man of many weaknesses. Now well into middle age, Edward is still very much a child, a sensualist blinded by the degenerative disease of narcissism.
“These trips abroad have become a necessity,” Edward said with a baleful smile, sinking into the chair where Claude sits now. The king’s throne. “You have no idea what I’ve been through this year. My wife has become a terrible burden. She burns through my money.
Burns
through it.” He takes a long, contemplative puff on his cigar. Above the rim of his glass and through the sheen of blue smoke, he stares at Claude and after apregnant pause says, “Maybe it’s time I finally got rid of her. I can only pray someone will take her off my hands, someone more suited to the job …”
IV
How much time elapses before Gonzago actually dies, Claude cannot say; the animal makes no sound at all, no strangled cries of torment, but at some point in the night, after finishing his third glass of absinthe, Claude notices the dog sprawled across the rug, motionless, eyes bulging from its skull, tongue hanging heavy and wet from the corner of its mouth. In that alien silence devoid of the dog’s demonic laughter, Claude feels the alcohol cascading into the deep fissures of his brain. Though he is not a superstitious man and has always made a friend of reason and
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