Stein played his putain de piano. The popular theme tune of the film The Titanic resounded in the large room, and in spite of the whisky or perhaps because of, it was a very moving performance. Another glass of scotch and he played ‘Feelings’, accompanied by the voice of his archaeologist girl friend, her speciality was the obscure science of ‘pebble culture’. As his fingers danced backwards and forwards over the keyboard, a very slight chill crept into the air after the warmth of the day. They paused to sip their coffee and took another refill of scotch.
“Where the hell did you learn that?” Asked Arrowsmith.
Stein caressed the Schimmel, his grand piano; it was one of his treasured possessions, which had given him countless evenings of untold pleasure.
He learnt to play when he was a boy and then, during the Second World War, refined his skills.
He then softly swung into ‘The woman I love’ by Gershwin.
Isaac Stein was an architect, an extroverted genius, who was known for his monuments that had been inspired by the extraordinary architects of the Middle Ages, who had built the Palais des Papes in Avignon, or the Cathedral in city of Montpellier, where he lived in a magnificent seventeenth century residence built by a rich nobleman of that period. He had restored and filled it with a surprising blend of furniture and fittings that spanned centuries past and future, with an incredible disregard for the opinion of the Ministry of Culture’s Historical Monuments Department.
In his vast living room, situated on the first floor on the house, the lacquered Schimmel contrasted with the austere lines of the Chinese iron wood furniture and fifteenth century tapestries from Liege. The floors were tiled in black and white Carrare marble, recovered from an Italian palace. His Alpine Hound lay before the log fire that kept the evening chill out of the old stonework.
Stein had been heavily influenced by the military architecture of late Middle Ages and renaissance. The forts of the conquistadors, that he had discovered when he had lived in the Caribbean during a turbulent period of his life, when he had become enamoured with Che Guevara and the hope that Castro had brought to the poor of Central America and the Caribbean. He also admired the logic of the forts of Vauban, who had been another of his sources of inspiration. Smooth noble stone, in straight lines, monolithic geometry softened by harmonious, uncluttered towers and turrets.
Brel had engaged Stein to design the Conquistador’s Palace that Prestige had built in Cayenne, which had been voted the most outstanding hotel design of the year, winning several international awards.
Stein had designed the hotel complex in Guadeloupe and was irritated by the delays caused by the financing; he had other commissions that were waiting. He was not a run of the mill architect, he selected his projects, he had more offers to design new projects than time, his time was limited, incredible though it seemed, he was pressing eighty, though looked a very fit sixty, he was a creative but highly temperamental artist, who would probably live forever thought Arrowsmith.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that’s the style of a night club piano player.”
“I suppose it is.”
Stein stood up and walked over to the bar, a marble altar.
“Let’s try this new scotch I’ve discovered, it’s a single malt, it’s supposed to be over thirty years old, a little young!” he laughed.
‘I’m not a whisky specialist, I enjoy a whisky but I have to admit I can’t really tell one from another,” confessed Arrowsmith.
“You’re just a fuckin ignorant Irishman,” replied Stein.
He poured two glasses of scotch and added a little water for Arrowsmith.
“So, here’s to you, Sláinte!”
Arrowsmith lifted his glass.
“Sláinte!”
“How is it?”
“Fine.”
“When I was young, during my university days at Cambridge, I started playing in the local pubs, I needed the money.”
The house, composed of four stories including the ground floor, was built in the creamy white limestone of Montpellier. On the upper three floors balconies overlooked the square. The ironwork of the balustrades was cast in intricate designs. The windows were framed in stylish carved stone surrounds. A handsome balustrade in carved stone surrounded the roof garden. The house was deep, the front part was Stein’s working and living area, to the back was the kitchen as well as the living quarters for his house keeper and her husband, his Portuguese chauffeur.
In his garage, in a tight functional courtyard, was a black Renault Turbo-Diesel for his day to day needs and a white Renault Alpine for weekends he spent in his villa, in the old seaside town of Palamos, north of Barcelona, with his friend Philipe Gonzalo or on his sloop anchored in the port.
Arrowsmith had parked his rented car in the underground car park, near an Arc de Triomph a couple of hundred meters from Stein’s place. His house was ideally situated, just behind the Faculty of Medicine and the Palais de Justice in the city centre.
“Why choose Montpellier?”
“That’s a long story, but you may be surprised to know that it’s the town the most frequently cited by the French as the place where they would most like to live. It’s not surprising, the climate’s perfect and the city is extraordinarily beautiful,” said Stein proud of his adopted town.
“I’ve read it’s one of the oldest university towns in Europe. If I’m right the city was founded by the Romans and the university was created in the fifteenth century,” Arrowsmith added, watching as Stein paused plunging into his long memory.
Stein put down his glass and turned over the plans spread out on a huge sixteenth century Spanish table.
“I came to Montpellier when I returned from Cuba in 1961, I was a young man then. I had a good business in Havana, the Cubans and South Americans liked my work, they had imagination.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I had no bloody choice boy, I practically left in a hail of bullets, an invasion, the fuckin Bay of Pigs. I lost every thing except my Oldsmobile, a few suitcases and my girl friend of that time. We took the last boat and three weeks later we landed in Marseilles and headed up to Paris.”
Stein was an remarkable person who had had an exceptionally long and full life, in spite of his age he was bounding with the energy of a man thirty years younger.
“Unfortunately or perhaps fortunately I had an accident, about a hundred kilometres from Marseilles, there were no autoroutes then, a bloody farmer on his tractor pulled out from his farm and hit me on the front wing. The nearest Oldsmobile dealer was in Montpellier and they arranged to have the car towed there for repairs.”
“An Oldsmobile dealer!”
“Yes, American cars were quite common at that time in France. Well, to cut a long story short, by the strangest of chances I ran into an old friend, Jacko, in a restaurant of all places. I had studied with him in Cambridge, he had just been commissioned to direct the renovations in the Historic Centre of the city. I told him my story, you know Cuba and all that, and he immediately proposed that I join him.”
“So that’s how you landed here.”
“More than thirty five years ago. We formed a partnership, very successful, we understood each other perfectly. Jacko passed away almost twelve years ago now, poor bugger! I carried on, there was no choice, what else could I do, this is not a business, it’s a way of life.”
Chapter 37
Hubert’s Real Estate
Offshore Islands Page 36
