Merlin of the Magnolias

by Gardner Landry

  The remaining members of the Dûche family left Houston altogether. It was rumored they had relocated to South America—maybe Argentina or Brazil. Some said they had heard they were on a ranch in Paraguay. It also became clear that Tite had thoroughly fabricated his family’s patrilineal heritage, spreading the notion they came from a lineage of wealth and aristocratic prestige. After the press got on the story, it was revealed that Tite’s family name was actually Dücher and that they were in no way either Alsatian or remotely aristocratic. The Düchers had been butchers in a hamlet near the Upper Austrian town of Braunau am Inn on the Bavarian border. When Tite’s grandfather moved to the U.S.—to Dallas, Texas—he changed the spelling of his name and concocted the rudiments of the phony story upon which his grandson would later elaborate with lavish embellishment. He wore an ascot and a smoking jacket, and the Dallasites ate it up.

  When Dutch authorities set out to take Nico van Rompaey into custody, they were confounded. He had vanished without the merest smoke trail of a lead.

  • Seventy-one

  Since Lindley and Merlin had become a couple, Lindley took on the gargantuan effort of setting the battleship of Merlin’s prodigious and catholic culinary appetites on a more salubrious course. He was now eating more green vegetables and beginning to eschew gluten and fried things from his daily intake. Additionally, Lindley had begun to encourage him to exercise, and he now rode alongside her on some of her many bicycle outings. Merlin’s bike was by no means one of those racing cycles so many enthusiasts ride. A fat-tired street bike with a wide, comfortable seat was his new mode of getting around the neighborhood and nearby environs.

  On a mild day during a late autumn trip to New Orleans, Lindley and Merlin found themselves uptown on Magazine Street. Lindley spotted a bike rental place called Chez Schwinn. They were thrilled when they learned the place had a wide-tired tandem bike for rent. With Lindley at the front handlebars, the two set forth to explore. They turned down Constantinople Street, and Lindley slowed and pointed to a house on the left.

  “Look how cute that one is!” she enthused as she looked toward the covered front porch of the home. Merlin saw a youngish, mustachioed man of perhaps his own age lounging on a swing behind the balustrade. Like Merlin, he was rather large. He was wearing a hunter’s cap with its earflaps up no doubt because of the pleasant weather and was playing a stringed musical instrument. An older woman swept the opposite side of the porch with a straw broom.

  Lindley asked Merlin, “What is he playing?” Merlin did not hesitate, as his knowledge of musical instruments both ancient and modern was encyclopedic. “It’s a lute,” he said with a certain winsomeness that bespoke his glee at seeing someone practicing such a noble stringed instrument that doubtless accompanied many a Renaissance feast.

  “Wow! A lute! I knew you would know,” Lindley said as she straightened the tandem’s front wheel and stood on the pedals to gain speed. They glided past an array of New Orleans home designs—shotguns, camelbacks, creole cottages, and some stately double-gallery houses.

  When they returned to Chez Schwinn later that day, they decided to drink chicory lattes in a little place adjacent to the bike rental shop called Café du Côté. As they sat across from one another at a two-top table by a window, Merlin produced a tiny jewel box.

  Lindley was speechless as she took it in her hands.

  “Open it,” Merlin said.

  She opened the little red velvet–covered jewel box that seemed like an antique. Inside was a marquis-cut diamond ring, perfectly sized to Lindley’s ring finger.

  “Is it okay?” queried Merlin.

  Lindley sighed and sat back a little in her chair and said, “Yes! It’s more than okay; it’s beautiful.”

  “Like you, Lindley!”

  Lindley started to tear up.

  “Put it on!” Merlin said.

  “Do you think it will fit?” asked Lindley.

  Merlin said, “Put it on!” again without a bit of wavering in his voice.

  Lindley slipped the engagement ring onto her left ring finger. It fit perfectly. Now she was even more thrilled.

  “How did you know my ring size?”

  “When we were in Canada, I traced the radius of a ring you wore on your right ring finger that you had left on a table. Then, taking into account that you are right-handed, I subtracted the standard amount of size variation of the ring finger from the dominant hand to the nondominant hand. I guess you could call it a fortuitous estimation.”

  “A fortuitous estimation,” Lindley repeated as her smile broadened. “That’s my Magic Man!”

  She leaned forward and so did Merlin, and their lips met in an engagement kiss as the beguiling earthy aroma of chicory coffee rose to caress them in this magic moment. Lindley’s hand touched Merlin’s cheek, and the sunlight through the window glinted off the diamond and sent brilliant star-like sparkles dancing on the café’s ceiling, creating a daytime visual echo of the summertime Canadian night sky they would cherish always.

  • Seventy-two

  Lindley Love Acheson and Merlin Mistlethorpe McNaughton were married in early May of the following year when the magnolias were at the peak of their bloom. After the ceremony in the chapel at St. James’ Episcopal Church, the reception was at the club. Both of them had made this short trip many times on the Sundays of their youth—heading down the boulevard for the big buffet spread with their families after church—but this particular ride down the boulevard on this bright Saturday would become the one they would remember most. A vintage Rolls Royce with passenger doors that opened outward from the left side instead of the right spirited them to the party in regal quiet.

  Halfway up the boulevard Merlin noticed in the median neat boxwood hedges circumscribing thick clusters of blooming roses. “Look!” he said.

  Lindley didn’t miss a beat and replied with a satisfied smile, “Double Knock Out Roses. Cherry red. I consulted on the project.”

  “You’re my double knockout!” Merlin enthused. He squeezed Lindley’s hand and her smile shone like the spring sunlight.

  On their arrival at the top of the circular driveway, a raucous mariachi band greeted them with a fanfare and followed them into the reception, where the assembled guests met them with an extended ovation.

  The day was neither too warm nor unpleasantly humid and, mirroring the couple’s radiant mood, the sun shone brightly above the golf course beyond the floor-to-ceiling picture windows of the big room. The weather was so nice, in fact, that Lindley’s father and the wedding planner decided to move the band and dance floor outside to a raised terrace directly behind the room that overlooked the golf course, including a small lake with a fountain. While the guests greeted Lindley and Merlin, music was provided in the indoor space where the buffets and bars were set up by the Bayou Boughs Chamber Orchestra. There were two musicians, one playing a cello and the other coaxing ethereal tones from a glass armonica. Guests mingled and settled at tables as Lindley and Merlin accepted greetings and well-wishes in the receiving line.

  Rex Mondeaux and Lindley’s father, Gray Acheson, were enjoying cocktails and looking out on the golf course after Acheson had greeted several people. Rex toasted Gray and said, “Well, if I had a hat on, I’d tip it to you. You sure picked the right time to call in that favor you’ve been sitting on.”

  “Lindley made the call,” Acheson responded. “I just passed along your gracious gesture. To say I’m grateful would be an understatement.”

  “Hey, I’m happy to have done it. I’m grateful that you saw a problem I didn’t and saved my ass in that deal ten years ago!” Gray Acheson smiled and nodded and then suggested, “Shall we have another?” The two Houston fixtures headed for the bar. After getting their libations in highball glasses with etched BBCC crests and matching cocktail napkins, the two continued to talk until a guest pulled Acheson into another conversation.

  Mickey McNaughton, who was quaffing his own cocktail of very dark liquor on the rocks, saw Rex Mondeaux had a
free moment and angled in his direction like a heat-seeking missile. He shook hands with Mondeaux enthusiastically.

  “Greetings, Rex. Great to see you again. How’s everything in the world of Mondoco?”

  “Oh, you know, just sixes and sevens.”

  “I guess that’s better than deuces and threes, right?”

  “Right you are,” Mondeaux said. “Hey, I got a question for you.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “I heard you called Tite Dûche the day he crashed and said you’d seen some compromising pictures of him. How’d you know about the photos?”

  “So I didn’t say that they were compromising, but my tone might have insinuated that they were.”

  “Okay, but how did you know about the photos?”

  “I didn’t. The detective on the case showed me photos of the S&M team that Tite paid to work him over, but they were just photos of the Syndics of the Rapers’ Guild in action with their clients blacked out.”

  “You bluffed?”

  “Yeah, it’s an intimidation technique they teach all the newbies in the executive track programs at the big Manhattan investment banks. Like when someone on the client or investor side challenges you during a presentation, you walk toward them as you answer their question without breaking eye contact. It’s a surefire intimidation and domination tactic. So, we learned, is the well-reasoned bluff. There’s a risk in it, but if the preponderance of factors points toward the possibility your bluff might be true, it can be worth venturing.”

  “Damn! I’ve seen plenty of New York IB and private equity guys in action, and now that I think about it, that walking toward the challenger thing is something I’ve seen them do. Where’d you learn that?”

  “Right out of Yale when I went to work for Schitti Banca. It’s an Italian–American concern like Lazard Frères is a French–American investment bank, but in this respect, they’re all the same; they all teach basically the same techniques.”

  “So that’s how the Ivy Leaguers do it?”

  “I guess it’s part of it. So it’s probably just a culture thing, right?”

  “Right you are, Mickster!”

  Rex grinned as a glamorous, sophisticated-looking woman tapped him on the shoulder. He excused himself from the conversation. Mickey had drained his drink and decided to switch to gin and tonics as they seemed to befit the sparkling spring day. He got in the bar line with the same efficiency of movement that he had exhibited when he swooped in on Rex Mondeaux a few minutes earlier.

  The party moved outside onto the terrace and the band, which included an impressive brass complement, took their places along the balustrade above a lawn that gave onto the golf course. They played a few songs to pick up the tempo of the party, and then, to all the guests’ genuine surprise, Lindley and Merlin positioned themselves at a corner of the dance floor in the confident posture of seasoned dancers—Merlin’s palm at Lindley’s back and hers at his hip. Merlin’s left hand held Lindley’s right hand, and he was ready to lead. They had each shed a significant amount of weight leading up to their special day, but they remained large, impressive figures on the dance floor.

  Merlin looked the band leader in the eye and gave him a nod, and the band began a new number. It was “The Lonely Bull” by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, and Lindley and Merlin swept and dipped and spun across and around the dance floor to a choreographed routine like competitive ballroom dancers. The crowd was astounded.

  Mac Swearingen stood agog and commented on the dancers to his nephew, Luke Swearingen, who had just graduated from medical school. “Well, I’ll be dipped! Who’da thunk it? The last time I saw anything remotely like this was when I was on the sidelines before a Texans’ game last season. I watched the linebackers do their pregame tire drill. It was an uncanny combination of size and cat-like precision.”

  Luke grinned and answered in his best doctor’s tone, “I concur, Uncle Mac.” Some of the guests whooped loudly as the dancers executed a series of spins and dips.

  The song transitioned seamlessly into “A Taste of Honey”—also by Herb Alpert and his legendary group—and the dance became even more lively. Lindley and Merlin seemed to glide across the floor almost weightlessly, but it was the spectacle of their combined mass and agility that continued to amaze the guests. A Bayou Boughs dowager standing next to Rex Mondeaux commented that they looked like animate versions of the dancers from the painting “Bailarines” by the Colombian artist Fernando Botero. “Stunning,” she said. “I hope they have this on video.” They did.

  “A Taste of Honey” came to an end with Merlin dipping Lindley over his right thigh. The crowd roared with applause and the kind of celebratory whoops that one hears only in Texas—even at the country club. A few beads of perspiration collected at the dancers’ temples, but they appeared no worse for the wear as, with flushed cheeks, they took a bow before the guests encircling the outdoor dance floor. The musicians settled into a more sedate tune, and Lindley danced with her father. Then everyone crowded the dance floor, and Lindley and Merlin danced together as the band offered an inspired rendition of “Merlin” by Tex Allen and the tempo of the music once again picked up.

  Shep Pasteur was at the reception as an honored guest. (Right after the Lumbeaux Jump fishing trip during Shep’s work suspension, Rex Mondeaux had strategically offered Shep a better-paying job as house manager for his Houston home and all of his vacation properties.) Shep brought his cousin Marie Mado and they cut a rug in that inimitable way that only real Cajuns can. Merlin cut in for a dance with her, and now, although the comic size difference between the two of them remained, Merlin’s steps were unfalteringly smooth. Marie Mado commented with a coy smile as they danced, “You have learned a lot, cher!” Merlin beamed as he accepted the compliment, and they spun counterclockwise like a tropical cyclone.

  Lindley danced with Shep, and they spoke as they moved around the floor in time with the music.

  “I’ve known you and Merlin all your lives, and I’ve never seen either of you smile like y’all are today.”

  Lindley beamed and said, “Well, Shep, you were a part of the plan. I mean in a big way and in a really granular way. You believed in my hunch and gave me Merlin’s clothing and shoe sizes without questioning me.”

  “And I never said nothin’ about it to nobody.”

  “I so appreciate that,” Lindley said as they turned and smiled even more brightly.

  Shep returned the smile, winked, and said, “An’ I never will.”

  At this, Lindley threw her head back in laughter at the inside joke she and Shep would get to share for years to come.

  At a corner of the terrace, Dirk Kajerka was chatting with one of Lindley’s friends from college, a sandy blonde with classic East Coast style he found very attractive.

  “My ancestors came to Texas from what’s now the Czech Republic back in the 1800s,” he said. “The original name was spelled K-j-r-k-a but my great-great-grandfather figured that was too many consonants in a row for English speakers so he added an a and an e, and that’s how it ended up being Kajerka.”

  “That’s fascinating!” the young lady replied. “In Connecticut, we think Texas is just kind of homogeneous. I had no idea.”

  Dirk winked at her and said, “Sometimes I think there’s more to this place than the world gives it credit for.”

  Then, uncharacteristically while chatting up such a compelling prospect, he looked at his watch and said, “Oh!”

  “What?” the young New Englander asked.

  Dirk responded with all the graciousness he could imagine a Southern gentleman might muster: “I’m sorry, Isabel. I must excuse myself. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party!”

  “Of course!”

  “It’s been a pleasure talking with you!” Dirk excused himself and headed down the terrace steps.

  The revelry continued at a fever pitch and those who enjoyed their cocktails took this as a perfect opportunity to indulge in their bibul
ous proclivities, displaying a few more flamboyant-than-usual moves on the dance floor. A couple of guests even sang with the band. A vociferous cluster of merrymakers shouted “Encore!” to Lindley and Merlin, and the couple obliged as the center of the dance floor cleared. The band launched into a rollicking rendition of “El Toro Valiente” in the style of John Coltrane backed by Art Blakey’s Big Band and Lindley and Merlin once again dazzled the crowd, sailing diagonally across the dance floor like twin caravels under full sail on a beam reach for home port.

  Teetering at the rail on one of the terrace’s edges with his back to the music, Mickey McNaughton missed Lindley and Merlin’s finale. He had cornered Isabel from Connecticut and, although slurring his words more than a little, he was doing his dead-level best to display his prep school, Ivy League, and Wall Street bona fides by playing “who do you know” in glib, rapid-fire verbal pulses, blurting the clipped syllables of jaunty Yankee-style banter. It wasn’t on his calendar the afternoon of the reception, but in a few short weeks, he would check in for an extended stay at Trembling Hills Ranch Recovery and Wellness Center on the Central Coast of California.

  The band took a much-needed break, and its roadies turned PAs, monitors, amps, mics, and instruments around to face the golf course. A few minutes later, the whir of an airplane prop approached, and then, astoundingly, the huge blimp—the Airmadillo itself—emerged from above the trees over the back nine and headed just a couple of hundred feet above the ground directly toward the thick, verdant, meticulously manicured lawn below and in front of the outdoor second-floor terrace where the revelers chatted and toasted one another and the new couple. As the blimp landed and some of the grounds crew at the club held the lines dangling from it, the band returned to their places.

  The guests were given little bags of rice, and they formed a long line leading from the terrace, down the stairs, and onto the lawn all the way up to a place near the blimp’s passenger pod, where another send-off team was in place. Eight of the club’s groundskeepers formed an archway the way the military does with sabers, but instead of sabers they held aloft gas-powered, shoulder-harnessed leaf blowers, with the long blower tubes held high and crossing the ends of the blowers of their counterparts standing across from them. Chloris Godley mounted a tall ladder on the left side of the passageway. She had changed into flats to ascend the rungs and held a basket of rose petals.