Helios and Aura
The San Sebastian Chronicles, Part XXI
It was a morning that tickled, as the dermal nerves struggled to contemporaneously convey the sting of the skin’s irradiation by a far distant sun and the pleasing chill of its infrigidation by the air adjacent. Mornings like these caused sweat to course through unfamiliar goosebumps like a drunkard running to catch a dawn train. Such mornings were common in springtime on Cap Ferrat.
Continued from…
There, beside a swimming pool surrounded by gleaming white and worn slick limestone, a man reclined on a chaise. He sported half-buttoned linen shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbows, with trousers to match rolled up to just above the knee. A pair of silk slippers, an iridescent heliotrope in color and texture surface-wise with scarlet silk lining inside, had a thin toehold on his feet. A wide-brimmed, white straw boater was cocked on his head, offering some solar protection to his ruddy, bald head.
A tea set of eggshell-thin china was arranged on a tray on a low table next to him, the cup empty, beside that were several newspapers, atop them a slim, finely bound volume entitled, Classical Mimes & Dialogues: Herodas to Plato, and atop that, another book, this one by Walter Savage Landor, entitled Imaginary Conversations.
“Helios and Aura woke up in bed together today,” the man called out from behind his newspaper to an audience that was not apparent.
A footman stood about twenty feet behind him, near a hedge-lined path from the swimming pool back to a sprawling, white, cliffside villa, but he remained a statue in tails, sweating under his wool top coat under the morning sun of the Còsta d’Azur. Nearer the pool, two squat and sweaty Italian gardeners looked at one another, but returned without response to trimming the topiary.
“Lots to talk about, those two,” the man said to himself as he turned the page.
Many more minutes passed in silence save for the dim hum of bees laden with lavender, the soothing lap of the pellucid pool, the tide, and the occasional rustling of the salmon pages of yesterday’s Financial Times in the man’s hands.
Finally, the man put down his paper and looked down to see the bottom of his demitasse. “Jennings,” he called out. At this, the footman appeared at his side.
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Brandy, orange juice, and seltzer, please. For after my swim.”
“Of course, m’lord.”
The footman disappeared and the man in the chaise stood and stretched. He removed his shirt to reveal a deeply tanned torso, with a sprinkling of salt-and-pepper hair, mostly salt, all over. He loosened his belt and lowered his trousers. Leaving him standing in a pair of black trunks. He left on his hat and was on a mosey toward the pool steps when he stopped at a shout from the path.
“Telephone! Lord Huntingdon, telephone! It is most urgent, your lordship.”
It was the butler of the place. He emerged from the hedges and clapped up to Lord Huntingdon across the poolside limestone with two footmen in tow. One of those held a large round tray upon which was a black varnished telephone, with the receiver off the hook and sitting on the tray, the other was a feet feet behind with a great roll of cord over one shoulder. As the first two walked as fast as they could, this second one was frantically unspooling the cord while trying to make sure he kept up the slack between him and the telephone bearer. This last chap looked most harried. The first footman looked unperturbed. The butler looked almost excited at his technological task.
“What is it? Just what is it, Clyburn?” Huntingdon said, his arms now akimbo.
The butler snapped his myrmidons to a nearby cabana where the telephone tray was placed on a shaded table.
“A call for you, your lordship. On the telephone. From a long distance. Most urgent, the operator has conveyed.”
“But I was about to swim.”
“Shall I bid them away, your lordship?”
“No, no. Just fetch me my robe. And find Jennings with my brandy, orange juice, and seltzer!”
“Of course, your lordship.”
Clyburn met Huntingdon at the cabana with a thick white robe in hand. Once he’d donned it, the lord sat down on a low teak lounger and hurriedly waved the phone over. The head footman handed him the receiver with a deep bow.
“Ahoy ‘hoy… Who say? Who is calling? Who? Oh, Fritzie! Yes, why didn’t you say so. What? Oh, Malta? No, no. Cap Ferrat. Malta is simply too noisy during war times. Ships and soldiers. Cannon. And now balloons, if you can believe it. No, no. Cap Ferrat.”
There was a pause. The lord nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again.
“What? What say? Where? Where? In Spain? Oh, I see. And whose is it? Whose? Oh, you don’t say. What do you mean vice? I see, and who…” Clyburn had then just arrived, empty handed. “Brandy, orange juice, and seltzer! …No not you.”
“Jennings is on his way, m’Lord.”
“Apologies, Fritzie. Right, now where is it? This fief! Yes. Oh. Yes, I see. Is there skiing? Oh, splendid. In ’08? Oh, yes! Yes, I recall now! Wonderful. Yes. Quite good sport. Now, what is it then? I’m sorry, the line is quite rattly. Can you send a telegram, man? Well.” He sighed. “Yes. I see.”
Jennings had just then arrived with a crystal flute full of a wonderful orange-red cocktail.
“Thank you, Jennings. No. No. No, Fritzie, I’ve just been given my morning cocktail. Right, so what about it then? Really? Well why have they done that? What side are they on then? What side? Side, what side? Is this a parlor game? Whom are they fighting now? Well whom were they fighting before? Right. Right. Well, that’s quite a cock-up… Indeed. And what do you propose? Well, can I do that? I see. Well I won’t travel. Out of the question. It’s been a great expense to drag stakes here and I don’t plan on leaving before winter. Fine. As long as that’s all. Yes. As a favor to you, Fritzie. Only for you, you know that. Love to Laetizia. Yes, I will call him myself. Alright. Alright. Yes. Thank you. I will pass the word to Lady Huntingdon. Of course. Think nothing of it. Alright. Aufwiedersehen.”
His lordship handed the receiver back to the head footman and then turned to his drink as he leaned back in his seat.
“Clyburn?”
The butler appeared from around the corner.
“Yes, your lordship.”
“Can you arrange for a long distance call? Quite a long one, in fact. To Lord Franz-Paulo,” he paused. “Kirchberg von Wenckenheim-Coburg. Do you know him?”
“I believe so, but I will check the almanac, of course, your lordship. Is this to do with San Sebastian?”
“Yes, that’s the place, you know of it?”
“I try to keep abreast of your lordship’s holdings.”
“Yes well, you’re a step ahead of me, it appears. Let’s place the call after luncheon. Now I believe it is time for my morning constitutional.”
“Shall I notify the Marchioness, Lady Huntingdon?”
“No, not today. A virile youth from the village will do fine. An actress if you can find one. If not, a barmaid will do. Even a stable boy if he’s washed up, but no facial hair. Anyone who’s willing. We’ll play Helios and Aura.”
“Very good, your lordship.”
“And some champagne!”
“Of course, your lordship.”
“Fine day for a swim!”
“Indeed, m’lord.”
Continued…
