Chapter 1
Marco Panzi and Michael Peighsley in their pompadour pink minivan, escutcheoned with the blazon of their business, drove deep into the well-manicured interior of Summerfield Estates, Michael doing the pointing when Marco was supposed to turn. After cruising down Carnegie Dale Drive, they slowly turned up Vera Lynn Lane, which cul-de-sacked before a quiet cottage. This rickety, mass-produced bungalow was obscured by both a prominent garage, carbuncled with a glossy, bulldoggish padlock, and a lush smothering of kiwi and jasmine vines, their wiry sprigs popping up even between the gutters and shingles—although whether the blame for all this overgrowth should be assigned to time, neglect, or the attempt at an “effect,” they did not know.
After parking unevenly along the bend of the curb, Messrs. Panzi & Peighsley sat a moment in silence, reflecting with unprofessed terror at possible failure of their First Job. Staring through the windshield, Marco suggested, “We can call them and say we’re too busy with other clients.”
Michael shook his head.
“Well, then,” said Marco, his dark young eyes fixed upon some infinitesimal gnat several miles ahead of them, “I guess it’s time.”
Michael nodded, knowing that doom and humiliation would soon be gaping ravenously before them.
Each lowered his respective sun visor and in its tiny mirror inspected his pomaded hair, then taking up their portfolios, determinedly exited the vehicle, to walk up to the cottage with the dignity of Robert E. Lee and his plus-one sauntering along to Appomattox Courthouse.
The cement walk from the street ended at a second path of bucolic mossy brick, above which hung a creaking sign like a loose axe-head. It read:
Chez Cockaigne
Creeping under this shingle to the front door, they soon were standing at an otherwise plain front door, although on either side ceramic foo lions raised glossy paws in warning. Next to the door itself was fixed a sizable bronze plate. Michael drew out a small magnifying glass and through glasses and glass, scrutinized the filigreed names etched into the metal:
Geoffrey Durant-Dupont
Andreas Stackenwalter
On the door itself hung a many-folded bustle of aged black crepe, like a great faded purple peony. Marco knowingly raised his brows to Michael, who somberly half-closed his eyes in answer. Readying himself for quiet, hand-squeezing sympathy, Marco pressed the doorbell.
Hearing the muffled musical summons of the bell echoing from within the house, Marco whispered loudly, “Mikey, business face.”
But Michael had no time to assume a bland professional mask before the door had opened and both he and Marco were inundated in a wave of French lyrics, sung by a woman’s voice both passionate and strident. Then they saw the man standing at the threshold.
He was many, many decades older than the eager pair. His hair, cut steeply short, made his head resemble a sizable white pencil eraser. From the ripped sides of a faded sleeveless workout top—spotted with fresh perspiration—sagged rubbery pectoral muscles; likewise, his exposed biceps were like bread dough that had been left out too long. His middle was covered in a pilly black back brace, his upper legs by tattered blue sports shorts showing the remains of the word ROMA on one thigh, the exposed skin of his legs was nicked from a recent shaving, his calves were squeezed into black compression socks, and pinkish jelly sandals covered his feet.
Marco quickly delivered his speech with Gatling-gun rapidity.“Marco Panzi and Michael Peighsley, P&P Estate Sales,” and thrust out a hand for ceremonial shaking.
“Ja,” said the man in rudimentary German as he took Marco’s hand and efficiently crushed it with a quick mechanical shake. “Stackenwalter.” Then reverting to rudimentary English, he said, “Come.”
Marco and Michael obediently followed him into the house, fighting at every step against fresh tides of French lyrics as a new album commences to play. Going around a corner, they found themselves in a room laden on every possible flat surface with countless artistic gewgaws, refugees from exotic jaunts, tribal initiations, archaeological digs, and moldy ancestral cellars. The walls about them supported a gallery of inharmonious styles—batik prints like experimental animation, a blue-white-and-red treatment like a patriotic supernova, and Fragonard frivolities, among other genres.
After another step, and before the next stage of business could commence, Marco sensed that Michael was “detaching,” that is, forgetting all about his professional obligations as he took out his pocket glass and began squinting through it, judging whether the treasures about the room were All Right, Very Nice, or Real: Above the fireplace a “Maxfield Parrish” depicting blithe, light-hearted girls partaking of a thundercloud sunset. (All Right—a museum print, the frame costing more than the picture.); an Assyrian cuneiform tablet lying on a desk as a paperweight. (Very Real, but only a university would buy it—the little desk was something Shaker.); kitsch souvenirs of solely personal worth. (Under the heading of Who Buys This Stuff?, but will be Real in a couple of hundred years.); a bust of a noble Roman with a particularly pugnacious scowl. (Could have been Nice-Adjacent if of actual stone, but being of fiberglass resin with limestone finish, well...$25.00 on half-price day.); two ostensibly identical clay vases with bright finish. (One Real, probably Talavera 1934 or ’35, the other one Isn’t That Nice?, from the ceramic class fundraiser at the high school.); and atop a sideboard with cinnabar finish (Knock-Off Nice) a broad but humble faience bowl the color of translucent ocean waves, its concave face patterned with twining branches in bud, but now holding someone’s car keys and wallet. (Very, Very Real and Shouldn’t It Be Locked Up?)
Boozily dominating this pastichery was a man of numerous decades, quite tall, or perhaps ‘stretched out’ garbed in a black kimono, while on his head sat a turban of sultry yellowish satin, unsuccessfully hiding a fringe of unattended-to gray hair. He lay upon an L-shaped couch strewn with pillows, sharing it with two small heaps resembling discarded wigs (these were revealed to be Pekingese dogs.)Seeing the fresh strangers with their chamois-polished smiles, the man gasped with a show of surprise, muttered something that could not be heard over the music, and pat about himself with a fluster to find the remote for his stereo. After a successful search, he aimed it at a dark corner of the room and the continental anthems abated.
In the sudden silence, he confessed a bit slushily, “So few people can truly appreciate dear Edith Piaf. It shows the decay of the race. Though at times, I’d say, she’s like a half-Algerian Frank Sinatra—after Chanel got her paws on him. But at least it’s not Nana Mouskouri—or Jacques Brel.”
The ossified physiculturist who had escorted Marco and Michael into the room said in an almost retaliatory tone, “Und Hildegard Knef?”
“Dear Andi, you remember the rule: only one Teuton is allowed in this house at a time and you are he. Monika Martin, during my nap, maybe.”
The German reverted to his role as major-domo and said gruffly, “P und P Estate Sales.”
“Ah,” said the man on the couch. He manipulated a fluty glass for a last lingering leggy swallow, then shook it upside down at the other man as if ringing an empty bell. “Could you kindly refresh the swill?” he asked with the sweetness of a Linzer torte. The other man disappeared around a corner, from ratty rugs to artificial tile, his sandals flip-flopping with each step.
Marco said, “Mr. Geoffrey Durant-Dupont?” and reached forward to shake his hand. The older man dropped the remote and squeezed only the proffered fingers.
Marco gestured that he might sit on the couch?, and Geoffrey told one of the Pekingese, “Una, my sweet, sit by Olga,” and set it by the other small dog, making a nominal place for Marco. But as Marco began to descend, he caught sight beyond his lowering backside of an architeuthoid glare, a great eye ringed in red.This was a huge black dog, unseen until that second, sprawled down the divan deflated and deliquescent, like a beast à la Dali. He quickly stood back up. Its great red eye shut.
Geoffrey smiled and stroked the once-more-snoring canine.“This is what is left of our Elsa. Great Dane, Neapolitan Mastiff, and Weimaraner. How was the accent, Andi?”
Andreas had come back with a fresh glass for him. “Gütt, mein Herr. Sparkling water.”
Geoffrey took it sullenly. "I am mystified how a diet of bamboo shoots and carrot tops can prolong the life expectancy of a carnivore. Elsa used to overeat and I think she’s been living off her lard ever since. Sadly, not her poor brother Axel, who left us...”He brought the cuff of his kimono up to his eyes. Oh, time stopped when our gentle giant went to guard the gates of Paradise. Andi, show the nice mercenaries our Axel,” and with a sniffle waved toward bright French doors half-visible from the couch.
Andreas commanded, “Come,” and Marco and Michael follow as if roped to him.
Andreas pointed through the doors to a mangy lawn, long ago reduced to mud by generations of dogs, in the middle of which, behind a frayed pommel horse, a set of planche bars, and a collection of kettlebells, grew a rangy hibiscus shrub sporting bluish blossoms worthy of any bed-and-breakfast wallpaper. At its base stood a memorial stone.
Andreas announced, “Axel,” and marched back to the living room, with Marco and Michael in tow.
As they came back in, Geoffrey explained, “We call that our ‘Axel Rose-of-Sharon.’ "He had rearranged the cushions and the Pekingese and patted his gaunt fingers on the couch next to him. “Here, Marco.Sit.”(Elsa had dragged herself further down the divan and was now half-barking in her sleep.)
Marco sat. The couch was as lumpy as badly-cooked mush and thatchy with decades of dog hair.
“Yes,” Geoffrey said.“Perfect.Now for the horse-trading. I will say, the only decent thing that my august mother, the only thing that she taught me was to always ask questions of tradesmen.”
Mustering as much crisp efficiency as he could, Marco said, “So, you want us to arrange a sale for you. It looks as if someone has passed recently?”
“No, not at all,” Geoffrey murmured with some confusion, but then followed a breath of realization.“Oh, the memento mori on the palace gates. Well, for Bastille Day, of course. Andreas nails it up on the First of May, but that’s another tale. But, no, no one’s moldering in the parlor, not just yet." He held up the fluted glass again as circumstantial evidence. "But, in as an entertaining a way as possible, tell me about your qualifications. Be the troubadour of your accomplishments, a re-sale lutenist in tight scarlet leggings.”
With scripted brevity, Marco explained his own background in sales, as well as that of Michael, who had majored in Art History.
“Ah,” Geoffrey surmised. He held up an authoritative finger like a prophet. "He will contribute aesthetic cachet and academic gravitas to the partnership. And what finer study can there be than of the beauty of the ages? But how will your clientele know of your Michael’s brilliance and éclat if he maintains such reserve and quiet composure?”He hailed Michael, who was mulling over a bronze statuette of a Valkyrie. "Young man, are you a congenital mute or something?”
Michael set the statuette down and shook his head, then went back to scrutinizing other trinkets, frippery, and what-nots, with jots and symbols scratched into his well-thumbed Moleskine.
“Ah, integrity. Don’t let that one go,” Geoffrey advised Marco sotto voce. “You can always have his ears pinned back with the profits from the sale.But you naturally are wondering, since you’re a clever lad and see that I’m not dead, why am I willing to watch my treasures end up in some stranger’s china hutch?”
Marco recited, “Every client’s needs are different.”
“I will tell you: As you can no doubt see, I am not a well man. I have never had the discipline of Herr Deutschmänn Über Alles there—”At this Andreas flexed both of his biceps, which swelled like pale baby melons.“—though in my day I was such a specimen. But that’s all lost to the ages. But as for this age in which I am forced to dwell, this I hereby swear: I refuse to allow those quacks at the hospital to bank any more of my hard-earned trust fund payments, either from the Durant side or the Duponts—and not those Duponts, my lad, but the ones who, truth be told, yes, did fill their coffers by teaching those cannibals in the Gold Coast the value of hard work by sending them in those cozy mines. But it’s not the job of an old invalid to lighten your day with an history lesson. I should step back to the present.”
Marco said, “You were talking about those quacks.”(Marco had his own beef with the local healthcare system, since they would not cut P&P Estate Sales a deal on dental insurance.)
“Yes,” said Geoffrey, seizing the thought and taking another swig of his concoction. "Those phrenologists with their leeches who keep muttering, ‘Cirrhosis, heart failure, Type II diabetes, dementia.’But that’s the oldest trick in the textbook—create the problem, then charge through the nose for the solution. Illness is big business. But then so is death, which is why you have been summoned. To arrive at the nub, the sale is to provide for my upcoming funeral expenses.”
Feeling as if he were walking in concrete shoes on to a lake after the first big freeze of the year, Marco said warily, “You’re planning ahead.”
“I do imagine that my time is nigh. I simply cannot see myself wearing trifocals to appreciate all of my pretty things. Like those,” he waved to where Michael was sedulously squinting at a line of Persian miniatures, albeit in craft store frames.“I simply wish all to be in readiness. I’d never burden poor Andreas with choosing urns or pine boxes or enduring rough roads to scatter my bits to the unfeeling winds of a mountaintop. No, everything will be ready and paid for—and then, the pillow.”Geoffrey found a certain cushion huddling beneath a Pekingese, pulled it up, spilling the perturbéd little dog in the process, and gave it to Marco. "A Bactrian motif, I think—see, little pomegranates and sycamines along the border?”Marco gave the cushion a look and then the old fellow a polite, chirpy, and utterly forced smile.“This will not be part of this cattle auction of the good and beautiful. A greater destiny awaits it. When all is at last prepared, Andi will press it against my wrinkled old face.”
Marco found himself inching backwards, only to collide gently with Elsa the Black Dog, who merely collapsed like a concertina at his pressure. He ventured, “You do know that the idea of a suicide sale is pretty, well…”
“Macabre? But think of the boost for your neophyte operation. People will flock to it for just its luridness. I know that self-immolation has never been the lot of those people are too busy surviving, all those bottom-feeders and the day-laborers who don’t take the time to think seriously about death. But what other path can I take?You yourself have to have felt it, when you drove through the gates of this Shangri-La? Just as I told old Sam Summerfield when he built this grand corral of decay: the genius loci of Summerfield is a spirit of death.”
But at this prophecy, Geoffrey gave out an inebriated snort. Quivering with his own bemusement, he said, “Mr. Panzi, in your desire to please, you’ve traipsed with me down the flowery path. Andi,” he called across the room, “behold this guileless generation. If they had lived through Ford and then Carter, they would have a dark sense of humor, too. No, young man, despair is the badge of the emotionally-pickled teenager and no one can pin that badge on me. Yes, over the years my once-moist-and-tender heart has shriveled, but I still appreciate too many things—ah, like the smell of the jardinière laden with mignonette on an August day—ah!—like a ratafia à la Vanille. Have you smelled it? And of course if the dear Fathers at Vertmoutier-en-les-Alpes-sur-Susoigne found out I had taken the coward’s way, they’d never let me repose next to mother in the crypt. No, my boy, I simply need to add a few shekels to the piggy bank. And I did promise the dear Fathers a new scriptorium. Oh, and Andi,” he asked across the room again, “the Sisters in Sinebaga?”
Andreas was hovering behind a busy Michael like a Nationalist banner at a rally while the younger man went on valuating the row of miniatures, but turned about like a precision screw. “Bolgatanga,” he said.
“Well, the mission school is in Sinebaga. In any event, I understand they need another box of chalk or chew toys for the crocodiles. My dear sister Ursula is there.”
Andreas had just turned back to supervising the Michael, when he let out a sharp Aryan “Nein!" Michael found himself under the German’s steel gaze for picking up a small brick of rough masonry stone, as if it were plutonium, a virgin daughter, and grandmother’s pearls all in one.
Geoffrey interceded. "Verboten, you know, verboten. Back on to the shelf, young man.”Michael quietly did as bidden and Andreas became as placid as a lake in a pagan saga. Taking up the little block, he disappeared down a hallway, to re-emerge moments later without this bit of rubble.
For the rest of the afternoon, Geoffrey from the divan pointed from item to item on wall or shelf, and with ersatz mercilessness chose this and that to be sold, with mute Michael beginning an official list in his moleskin and the laconic Andreas scowling and grunting to ensure that what he scratched in his little book mirrored the wishes of Geoffrey. Then followed a tour of the garage, the coat closet, and the garden shed, although neither bedroom. At the end of the journey, Marco sat back down on the couch, swiped his finger back and forth on his device and offered a few dates on which to conduct the sale. Hearing Geoffrey refuse to have the rank and slavering herd stampeding, however politely, through his house, Marco agreed—for a slight increase in their fee—to transport his bibelots, trinkets, pricey miscellany, and even pictures (Geoffrey Durant-Dupont did not possess paintings) to “the auction yard,” as Geoffrey dubbed the Summerfield clubhouse, there to conduct the sale. With the victims marked for slaughter, the date decided, and the clubhouse quickly called for confirmation, Marco stood with aplomb, wiped the general coating of dog hair from his backside and hamstrings with scarcely discernible sprezzatura, and thanked Geoffrey for considering them for the sale with a comfortable if not veteran professionalism.
Thus, with Andreas and the two Pekingese under the kiwi and jasmine arbor watching them depart, our young men drove away. And once they had turned off of Vera Lynn Lane and were rolling down Carnegie Dale Drive, out of any possible sight of their clients, did not at that moment purple finches and lovebirds begin to twitter and did not eglantines and honeysuckle blushingly blossom in the gardens round about, as their minivan buoyantly bounced along like an outsized pink marshmallow under an arching bow of many hues bearing aloft a sky gleaming with golden limpid beams?Very, very likely, for Marco Panzi and Michael Peighsley of P&P Estate Sales had just secured their first commission.
