Men he detested, yes indeedy. One such comes to mind most particularly. Let’s poke our noses into an apartment on the Plaza de Catalunya, just down from the impressively upright cathedral, a structure combining the delicacy of the spired style with more than a touch of the fortress. The Moors had made it nearly this far north two centuries earlier.

         The resident of these premises is a man of nice taste. The walls are hung with art and lined with shelves of curiosities; the fellow is a collector. A recovering collector myself, I’d wager that the trove of oddments is the response to an inner deficit, and a way to keep disappointment with life at bay.

         What can I deduce from this accumulation? The pieces are carefully arranged, not on the basis of type, ceramics, silver, etc., but by shape, color, pattern, in pleasing 

convivialities. I see nothing that if painted, would not, as situated, make a charming still-life. He has an eye. 

         There’s not a spec of dust that I can find, a feat, what with all these dust-catchers. This individual tidies the room himself; a servant would not caretake so lovingly. Such commitment to spic-n-span is not healthy. When one is so insistent on an orderly surround, the inner life is in turmoil, it is a coping mechanism. He cannot be at ease here, he’s always fluffing a pillow or shaking out a rug. He always finds something amiss.

         A dinner is just underway in the next room. This personage, he is clearly one to be reckoned with, has access to the skills of an outstanding chef. Near neighbors, both bachelors, both fond of good food, both sustained by creative interests, the enjoyment of literature in the one case, the pursuit of arresting objects in the other, have formed an unlikely alliance. A swindler and a churchman have bonded.

*

         The swindler (actually, the son of a swindler) is a transplanted Burgundian, very sure of his superiority. He makes much of it, far more than what it is, dropping names, claiming close acquaintance on the basis of a perfunctory word or two. The churchman (actually, His Excellency, the Archbishop of Haute-Navarre), canon of the cathedral overwhelming the plaza, radiates a serenity that the other envies with all his heart.

         Gustave d’Ollot is all too aware that his driven acquiring is an attempt to fill a hole in his soul. Evenings of good fellowship with Burutzagi Zumaya darn that hole, a bit. They have a considerable sympathy, developed over a considerable period; they think alike. A remarkable idea has seeded itself in both their brains and put down roots, while good sense, a less aggressive growth, has been overarched by showier vernation which has thrived due to the liberal application of absinthe. (1)

         D’Ollot may live wonderfully well in the hardscrabble south, but he longs to set up amidst the extravagance of Paris. Zagi, as he is known, hopes to reinvent himself also. A secret playwright, he longs for his works to be presented in the cultural apex of Europe. If he panders to the pretensions of his comrade, it is because he hopes that letters of introduction from one on a first-name basis with French elite will one day open doors. Zagi has reason to think his companion has pull, robust self-promotion aside. The man has magnificent miniatures in his possession that are possibly what they are proclaimed to be, the residue of a grand lineage. He’s not willing to rule out that the man has not-so-distant cousins well placed Seine-side.

         If d’Ollot wants so badly to conquer Parisian high society, why doesn’t he sell off his choicer holdings to finance the maneuver? This exquisite dragon-shaped stem goblet, for instance. Early Venetian cristallo, I’m thinking. One of eight, and there is a matching carafe, the set is highly desirable, certainly. Well, he can’t. It would have to go to auction in Paris, where it would be recognized. All his best pieces are stolen goods. That they were inherited is as true as it can be, inherited from his father, a noteworthy charlatan, whom he’d admired tremendously for his audacity. The drab accountant has never measured up to his dashing Papa, who dreamed his dreams and acted on them.

         This house sits in the best street in the prosperous upper town. D’Ollot ought to fit in here, cheek by jowl with other officials, yet he does not. Foreigners never shed their otherness in Haute-Navarre. D’Ollot pere had purchased a level of acceptance, which d’Ollot fils has eroded with his aggressive business dealings. In addition to a seat on the royal council, he is a notary of the common court, handling civil work and tax cases, and prosecuting debt. The middle-class, never a sure perch, is especially frantic to save face, praying to recover their financial footing, their names unblemished.

         Smaller possessions seized for monies owed are sold after a week if the debtor cannot cover his liability. An enterprising notary, privy to deep distress, can step in and take possession of items that often are never redeemed. He operates discreetly. Nosy neighbors do not see the negotiations; nor do they hear the goods cried in the square on the day of reckoning. The caught short better-offs thank him for salvaging their reputations, and despise him for taking easy advantage of their reversals of fortune.

         Tax debt is the worst. People are put in jail for it. Real estate is taxed, and also plate and furniture, every sort of belonging. An accounting is kept of every property, along with its amenities (an outhouse, a kiln, an oven), and its gardens and rents; this is the basis on which responsibility is determined. Jealous gossip is invaluable in discovering other wealth, and you can be sure that d’Ollot is up on who owns what. When disaster strikes a household, he is the first to lend a helping hand, holding collateral at a smart discount, knowing that many will not be able to pull themselves out of a hole. (2)

         With a house full of marvels, his own tax burden must be substantial. Surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly), it is not. There is a formula for assessing the worth of movable goods, they are pre-emptively assigned half the value of the house to compensate by a wide margin for the concealment of assets. But this percentage is far below the worth of d’Ollot’s cache. His captures are not advertised by the humiliated insolvents, and no one is allowed to marvel at his collections except for Zagi. The maid does not penetrate his inner sanctum. The stronghold is kept locked. His other rooms are nothing beyond well-to-do ease. There may be rumors of opulence, but there are no witnesses to it. He pays his taxes promptly. No Sergeant demanding to take an inventory of disposables will ever come banging on his door.

*

         It started as a game of What if? Two friends had egged each other on. D’Ollot has the solid business sense. He will wring every (sou? TK) out of a charade that can be got, sell licenses, collect taxes, accept also bribes (he is, after all, the Minister of Finance), line his own pocket, then, in charge of bookkeeping, cover his tracks, his old man’s equal at long last.

         Zagi will handle the vetting of a miracle, directing a gentle interrogation of the principals. Two boys, however they might stumble during a formal inquiry, will have nothing to fear from him. By the time an official arrives from Rome to investigate, the incident will have taken hold with the Simple-Simon masses and no belated condem- nation will shake their conviction. He will reinforce reverence with staged healings, unless frenzied worshipers accomplish miraculous recoveries themselves. The mind works in mysterious ways; add ardent faith to child-like thinking and anything can happen.

         At that point the flood of worshipers eager to trammel the sacred site will not be

discouraged by an official denunciation, however vigorous. It will be a scandal within the church hierarchy. He may be demoted, even dismissed. No, it won’t come to that. He can play the brainless provincial as well as anyone. But, so he’s booted, so what? He’ll decamp to Paris under a new identity. He favors Elissalde Esquivel at the moment but, like a loopy bride to be scrawling her future name, he doodles constantly, and each nom de plume is more flamboyant than the last.

*

         It's fun, noodling around here, eh? But it ain't making headway plot-wise. Follow me. In the next room, two screwballs are fortifying themselves with a notorious mind-meddler. A guest is due, and they are anxious. His Highness Prince Bittor has expressed dismay on numerous occasions at his father's command of the sinking ship of state, the vessel that will one day be his to refloat. Caught between fealty to his monarch and dread at the mess that  will one day be dumped in his lap, he has unburdened himself to a mentor, one he has come to rely on for all manner of advice, his father's childhood playmate, the Archbishop of Haute-Navarre.

         Zagi, a free spirit at heart, would have chosen another career for himself, but was slated for the chirch from a young age. Having conceived of a second chance at the life he yearns to live, he has decided to go for broke. Gustave, less devil-may-care, insists on having an insurance policy in place. Here's what's at stake this evening: Bittor must be convinced to commit to an action, in writing. He's not the most steadfast, except for that curious hobby of his, and for the highly unsuitable famale, for whom, Zagi affirms, he has a sincere regard.

         I’ve got one more thing to say before we crash this tête-à-tête. Look, the to-do that upset the king so terrifically in chapter one, Sly thinks it was an empty jab at an old fool. Even Sly, with his own outrageous ideas, can’t believe the man is serious. I disagree. I think d’Ollot lost control of himself and and blurted an outrageous idea. How many took him seriously? That's hard to say. I did. And, knowing what I now know, that the man is into la fée verte, the green fairy, it is called, I judge him capable of anything.

         D’Ollot made light of his outburst, but not before he’d observed that others on the council seemed far from dismissive of the only concrete plan they’d heard to replenish the treasury, aside, of course, from Bittor’s idiotic obsession, in comparison to which almost any nonsense is cast in a better light. D’Ollot had made his usual exacting report, citing disheartening figures, condemning impossible extravagance and making recommendations.

         The king’s reply had been, We trust in the mercy of the Lord to see us through. This platitude was Jakome’s answer to any challenging situation, but on this occasion the rote refrain, after a sincere plea for reform, was too much to bear.

         D’Ollot had snapped, spewing scorn for a magical mind-set, vowing henceforth to adhere to his father’s own oft-expressed credo: God helps those who help themselves.

​

*

 

Is that a commotion

in the foyer?

              Ah!

 

         Bittor has arrived, on foot, no coach, no attendants, in plainclothes, his Everyman clothes, as if, six feet tall and rail-thin, a beanpole, he might skulk to a rendezvous unremarked. We’ll let him get settled, then edge in and see what’s what.

 

         In the meantime, I urge you to read a scrap of letter that I’ve pulled off the web. 

 

         A wonderful thing, the web. I’ve stumbled across the digitized archives of a museum in Leipzig, which my German husband has translated for me.

​

*

​

Thank you, my darling,

for your invaluable help

on this demanding project,

my own idiotic obsession.

​

​