“Milly,” his name never so mellifluous as when spoken in Dona Maria’s sensuous lilt, “how very delightful to see you again.” She didn’t often stray from her hard, unambiguous speech but, when called upon, she could detour even the most determined minds towards exuberant sexual fantasies. Not forever, though. Only long enough to confabulate an unlikely intimacy, one that would invite confidences otherwise withheld. It did not always work out. With Milly, she already knew that he would not rise to the occasion. It was only habit, whenever she foresaw difficult negotiations that she momentarily relied on the powers of seduction.
“Dona Maria,” he responded, a tone reserved for long absent intimates, arms outstretched as if to be crucified or receive his dearest friend, “it’s been too long.” They had met on only three occasions and each time surrounded by many others, strangers for the most part. No matter, they each needed to set an opening ambiance as they thought would best serve their interests. There was the usual embrace, a brush of cheeks and Dona Maria sliding her arm around Milly’s to walk him to the small intimate dining room reserved for more serious discussion. During this ritualistic dance the patriarch was all but ignored.
Dinner was anything but a simple affair. Apart from the extravagant fare, the small talk resembled nothing so much as that of the sinful casting the first stones. The pan grilled duck liver, on a bed of fresh spinach, a raspberry sauce running suggestively red around the plate’s perimeter was served with a 1976 Chateau d’Y’Quem, the colour of polished amber. The conversation was light, prancing around the alarming increase in worldwide obesity, decrying the tendency to consume too much fat in ever greater quantities. A sumptuous 1983 Chambolle Musigny, accompanied the quail in their delicate sarcophagi like pastries and the filets from the wild boar recently shot by Dona Maria at the family hunting lodge in the Dolomites, were perfectly matched with a luscious 1991 Tignanello. They expressed their unanimous disgust at the recent accounting scandals and the general difficulty in finding reputable business partners. Cheese was of a local Tuscan variety, which Milly had not seen before and was washed down with a younger wine, another Pinot Noir, but this one from Oregon’s well known Willamette Valley. Here talk was at last tending towards matters at hand. There was some discussion about the quirky language in Southwest France, the persistent English influence in Bordeaux and much speculation as to the shape of today’s world had the French not ultimately prevailed at the Second Hundred Years War. Dessert, a simple bowl of field berries with optional dark chocolate sauce beckoning in small glass bowls set at each place, wonderfully mingled with the black-red 40 year old port. The heady mixture of chocolate and port turned Milly’s attention to the Donatello family crest, prominently displayed on the noticeably spartan wall opposite the glittering row of windows.
“Always was jealous of people with histories long enough as to have a legitimate coat of arms. Never did like the new money coats. Insufferable, every last one of them. What can they be thinking; that they could hide their commonness behind a tacky picture?” Milly of course believed his own crest, which he had stitched onto every outer and under garment, was different. It was, after all, most of two generations old. The Donatello listened with old money politeness. They quite rightly did not feel targeted by Milly’s disdain for the recently arrived imposter.
“Now, your crest, there’s a splendid piece of work.” Milly rose from his chair, gazing at the shield, making his way around the table to the opposite wall. There was an audible gasp, but the Donatello were too civilized to object when Milly ran his fingers over the 600 year old images. The promenading digit paused in the bottom right hand quadrant. “That little cross on the knight’s armour in the bottom right hand corner, now that’s something I’ve only seen once before,” he said, appearing genuinely surprised. The Donatello squirmed.
“And where would that have been, “Dona Maria asked, also prepared to drag the tedious innocence game through all its intricate steps? Milly paused for a moment, his puckered lips betraying the imminence of unpleasant news.
“Sadly, Dona Maria, on a dead man.”
“Oh,” she intoned, neither recognition nor revulsion in her voice. She turned with unseemly sensuality to her father and more breathed than asked, “what do you make of that?”
Instead of answering her, considering the game at its end, he turned to Milly and asked about the circumstances. As Milly ran through the events at the VBI hunting lodge there was much hemming and hawing and a great deal of facial mobility, the Donatello duly expressing shock and dismay. They were still not sure just how much Milly actually knew. They were not about to jump to any bait if he was only fishing they had no intention of giving him any help whatsoever.
“Well,” Dona Maria sighed, that’s quite a tale. I’m sure we don’t know who these men were. Milly, you are a valued business associate and we would never undertake anything so vile against your interests. What do you take us for,” careful not to pause long enough for a response? “Would you like us to look into this matter? It seems someone has appropriated one of the symbols on our family crest and we have no idea why they would have chosen that one. Perhaps we should for that reason alone make it our business and look into it.” Again she turned to her father, a convenient foil in this delicate duel, and asked, “what do you think, father?”
“Yes, most definitely yes,” he said, his voice as formulaic as his response. “Such brazen attacks on our friends, using our own symbols, just won’t do.”
Milly’s undisguised disappointment told them that he was now unsure. But they were wrong in thinking that he was unsure that they were involved. He was fairly confident about that. The dodgy business he was now certain they sometimes concluded for him, the crooked cross on the family crest and their willingness to see him on such short notice after he had thrown them the bait was for him evidence enough. Rather, he doubted he could get them to admit anything. His problem unfortunately had just grown bigger and, very likely, much riskier. He would be competing with a highly successful criminal organization in an endeavour, and he was still no wiser as to quite what that was. If that is the way it had to be then that is the way it would be. He did have one last card to play.
“If you are to look into this matter,” he said, speaking directly to Dona Maria, “you will need to talk to Abelard. I could arrange for you to have direct access whenever you get around to doing so. Unfortunately, he seems to have misplaced the jeweled cross.”
Dona Maria had already been contemplating the early demise of Milly, even if he had no proof that she was involved. For her, his suspicions alone were sufficient to constitute an unacceptable threat to the family’s business interests. Milly’s offer to produce Abelard would no more than delay the inevitable, as it occurred to her that some profit could be extracted from postponing his termination. Abelard had, after all, shown himself to be a dangerous nuisance, five of her men dead and him walking around with far more knowledge about the family than she cared.
“What do you think father,” she said, again using him as her third party channel to communicate with Milly? It was a useful device to keep others from knowing just how powerful she actually was. It was like harbouring a secret weapon, the element of surprise. “Milly’s offer is very generous and would help us enormously in our investigation. Also,” she continued, but with more emphasis, as she was coming to the central point of her argument, “we know nothing about this Abelard and could avoid a costly confrontation if Milly were to intercede on our behalf and facilitate a face to face meeting.”
“I agree,” Gianni sighed, right on cue.
“Excellent,” Milly bellowed. “I will, of course, want to be there whenever it is you decide to interview Abelard.”
“Naturally,” Dona Maria said, thinking that all this would be easier than she dared imagine.
*
The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book Page 57
