Monday Book Review: KRAKEN by China Mieville

This is going to be a strange book review. Well, stranger than usual anyway. I must admit I read this book, enjoying it as I went along primarily because I so like China Mieville's style and chutzpah. There are things in this book that are just mind-wrenchingly good. Things that astound: one character named Wati who enchants in the way you're not normally used to being enchanted - AND he doesn't even have a corporeal self. He's an entity - leftover from ancient Egypt, a little spirit who jumps from statue to statuette to Captain Kirk action figure to... well, long as it's a figure with a head, Wati can make himself at home. For Wati alone, it's worth reading the book.

The main disappointment for me in this 509 page saga of a lost London on the edge of the end of the world, is that what I thought from the beginning would happen - didn't. Whose fault is that?

Probably mine. But China's got to take some of the blame too, I'm thinking. He set something up and then didn't deliver. Though it is entirely possible that I mis-understood what he was setting up. In all likelihood, that's really what happened.

Listen, it wouldn't be hard to misunderstand what's going on in this book. The thing with China, I think, is the same thing I find with Michael Innes: he fully expects his reader to be as smart as he is. Hey, that's not always the case here, China. There's stuff in this book that had me thinking: huh??!! I mean, HUH?! Days later and I'm still trying to find the word play in the character names: Goss and Subby. I mean, there HAS to be a hidden meaning there I'm just not getting. IT'S AN ANAGRAM OF SOMETHING DEEP, RIGHT?? Please, end my misery, tell me what I'm missing!

And by the way, two more disgustingly vile and villainous characters than Goss and Subby you will not find in the entire history of literature. They are the embodiment of everything foul, vicious and deadly. I tremble to think that even my beloved Joe Pike might have a problem with Goss and Subby....Nah! But you can take your Mafia, your Russian hoodlums, your gang-bangers, your Nazis, your, well you name it, I'd put Goss and Subby up against them any old time.

Okay, here's what we have: We have a giant squid, Architeuthis dux, the KRAKEN in the title - remember in Jason and the Argonauts: Let loose the Kraken!!! - well anyway, this Kraken is a dead, preserved specimen, stolen (along with his giant tank) from the Darwin Center at the Natural History Museum in London. His 'keeper', guide and curator at the museum is Billy Harrow whom one assumes to be the hero of this tale. However, my feeling is that Dane, another character we meet along the way is the real hero, but I could be wrong.

There are SO many things about this book that I could be wrong about, so don't take anything I say as gospel (ha!) unless I absolutely say so.

Well, turns out this Kraken, dead and lonely and unlovely, floating in his tank of preservatives, eyeless, sightless and dead these many years since he was hauled from his home deep in the sea - the sea, now see, the sea is another character in the book, the sea which takes up residence in a little London house and waits for developments. Where was I? The Kraken - the giant squid is viewed by some cliques in London as a God. Yes, he is worshipped. The Kraken and his often frenzied religous worshippers are but one faction of this tale of the end of the world as it applies to London.

In this world China Mieville has created, there doesn't seem to be 'anyplace else'. London is a destination unto itself. Many worlds unto itself. All living together, ignorant or ignorning of the other. If you read China's previous book, the brilliant THE CITY AND THE CITY (a must-read), you'll know that he's very adept at this city within a city thing.

There are different factions in KRAKEN which might or might not have had a hand in stealing the squid from his 'resting' place at the museum. The cops, having their own cop-axes to grind, of course are involved in wanting to get him back - the Kraken is stolen property after all: that's one faction. Then there are the Londonmancers, the spell-makers, the space shifters, the religious sects, the bad-ass gangs, one of them led by a guy who is no more or less than a talking tattoo etched on the back of an unfortunate guy named Paul. The tattoo is named, well, Tattoo. To hear his orders and his rants, two gangbangers make sure the reluctant Paul is always facing the right way. This is one of the most inventive sequences in the whole book. The realization of it and and how it works is, as I said, in the beginning: mind-wrenching.

Turns out the Kraken has something to do with the coming end of the world and one faction is trying to save him while others are trying to use him or destroy him. That much I understood.

There's a dazzling on-going sequence pertaining to one character (not the Kraken) who is supposed to be dead and when he comes back (not the Kraken), he is incorporated as ink on writing paper. This amazingly inventive, brilliant and illustrative sequence of events is one of the reasons I say, read this book!

Go ahead, read it. You might make more sense out of it than I did, then you can explain it all to me. Sometimes the trip is better than the destination.

Cool-Hand China, the guy who thought it all up. KRAKEN.

Favorite Character Names: "Getting A Handle On Naming Characters"

"Gettting A Handle on Naming Characters" is the title of an interesting bit posted on The Guardian newspaper blog by Ben Meyers recently. He talks about the importance of the right name for a fictional character and the idea of a character 'growing' into a name.

This got me thinking about the more successful character names. What works for you as a character name? I suppose for everyone it's a bit different. I have been known, I confess, to stop reading a series of books because the main character's name was just such a turn-off. Won't say what, won't say who and won't say why - it's my secret to keep. (And yet I KNOW the books are very good and I'm probably missing out. One of these days I'll have to get over this.)

So with my penchant for lists alive and well and ready, at any moment, to spring into action, I thought I'd list some 20 or so character names I've always liked.

• Odd Thomas named by Dean Koontz.
• Hondo named by Louis L'Amour
• Jack Reacher named by Lee Child
• Atticus Finch named by Harper Lee
• Marianne Dashwood named by Jane Austen
• Elvis Cole and Joe Pike named by Robert Crais
• Flavia de Luce named by Alan Bradley
• Captain Hook named by J.M. Barrie
• Spenser named by Robert Parker
• Armand Gamache named by Louise Perry
• Dodsworth named by Sinclair Lewis
• Hercule Poirot named by Agatha Christie
• Jane Marple named by Agatha Christie
• Achille Poirot named by Agatha Christie
• Peter Blood named by Rafael Sabatini
• Scaramouche named by Rafael Sabatini
• Arkady Renko named by Martin Cruz Smith
• Elizabeth Bennett named by Jane Austen
• Fitzwilliam Darcy named by Jane Austen
• Jack Twist named by Annie Proulx
• Jane Eyre named by Charlotte Bronte
• Sam Spade named by Dashiell Hammett
• Chet and Bernie named by Spencer Quinn
• Ben Quick named by William Faulkner
• Dido Twite named by Joan Aiken
• Richard Jury named by Martha Grimes (though I've always hated the name of his best friend Melrose Plant - I mean, really.)
• Amelia Peabody named by Elizabeth Peters
• Samuel Grapearbor named by Jordan Ellenberg
• Harry Potter named by J.K. Rowling
• The Great Gildersleeve named by I don't know who.
• Sherlock Holmes named by Arthur Conan Doyle
• Mycroft Holmes named by Arthur Conan Doyle
• Sebastian Flyte named by Evelyn Waugh
• Winnie the Pooh named by A.A. Milne

Well, I'd better stop for now. But it occurs to me looking at this list that I like both colorful, flavorful names and names that are short, tough and sound good spoken aloud. AND that most of these are male names. Hmmm. Well, I do seem to prefer male protagonists, no question.

Of course the names must have something to do with the character - don't you think? A good name will, thereafter, invoke the character instantly and form a picture in the imagination. I suppose, a good character name is a sort of 'brand.' It's not easy to trifle with brands. Most of them are permanent.

Off the top of your head, can you think of character names you've liked and remembered over the years?

Sunday Salon: Writing I Like - From LOST IN A GOOD BOOK by Jasper Fforde

Now and then I'd like to post short excerpts (well, relatively short) from books I've read and loved over the years. I've only done it once before, but I think I'm going to make it a regular thing from now on. Once I have a few of these posts done, I'll make a little doo-hicky on the sidebar so you can find them easily enough if you're of a mind to. Who knows? You might discover a writer whose work you might like to investigate. (As if there aren't enough of them already - right?)

Not going to tell you much about the book, really, because then it becomes a book review which this really isn't. Suffice to say it's one of my favorite books, it's fantasy-lit written by a brilliant, imaginative guy and you won't go wrong reading it. Though if I were you I'd read the previous book, The Eyre Affair, first. But, it's up to you. Find out more about the author Jasper Fforde at his (not like anything else you've ever seen), website. (Shown above are the British and American versions of the cover.)

The character telling the story in the first person is literature detective, Thursday Next.

I closed the book, carefully placed it in my pocket and looked around. I was in a long, dark, wood-paneled corridor lined with bookshelves that reached from the richly carpeted floor to the vaulted ceiling...High above me, spaced at regular intervals, were finely decorated circular apertures through which light gained entry and reflected off the polished wood, reinforcing the serious mood of the library. Running down the center of the corridor was a long row of reading tables, each with a green shaded brass lamp. The library appeared endless, in both directions the corridor vanished into darkness with no definable end. But this wasn't important. Describing the library would like going to see a Turner and commenting on the frame. On all of the walls, end after end, shelf after shelf, were books. Hundreds, thousands, millions of books. Hardbacks, paperbacks, leather bound, uncorrected proofs, handwritten manuscripts, everything.

I stepped closer and rested my fingertips lightly against the pristine volumes. They felt warm to the touch, so I leaned closer and pressed my ear to the spines. I could hear a distant hum, the rumble of machinery, people talking, traffic, seagulls, laughter, waves on rocks, win in the winter branches of trees, distant thunder, heavy rain, children playing, a blacksmith's hammer - a million sounds all happening together. And then, in a revelatory moment, the clouds slid back from my mind and a crystal-clear understanding of the very nature of books shone upon me.

They weren't just collections of words arranged neatly on a page to give the impression of reality - each of these volumes was reality. The similarity of these books to the copies I had read back home was not more than the similarity a photograph has to its subject. These books were alive!

I walked slowly down the corridor, running my fingers along the spines and listening to the comfortable pat-pat-pat sound they made, every now and then recognizing a familiar title. After a couple of hundred yards I came across a junction where a second corridor crossed the first. In the middle of the crossways was a large circular void with a wrought-iron rail and a spiral staircase bolted securely to one side. I peered cautiously down. Not more than thirty feet below me I could see another floor, exactly like this one. But in the middle of that floor was another circular void through which I could see another floor, and another and another and so on to the depths of the library.

I looked up. It was the same above me, more circular light wells and the spiral staircase reaching up into the dizzy heights above. I leaned on the balcony and looked about me at the vast library once again.

"Well," I said to no one in particular, "I don't think I'm in Osaka anymore."

"A visitor!" exclaimed a voice behind me. "What a delightful surprise!"

Sunday Salon: Thelma and Louise: No Wonder...! (20 Years Later)

This is not one of my all time favorite films. In fact, it's not even a true favorite at all. But I was reading Robin Bates' blog post on the 20 Year Anniversary of 'Chicks Who Kick Butt' and liked some points he made and wanted to make sure to share. As usual, with Robin's posts, it is thoroughly thought-provoking and not meant to be read in three seconds or less. Robin's blog is one of those whose names I absolutely love: Better Living Through Beowulf. How Great Literature Can Change Your Life. He talks about all manner of things though and he takes seriously, his blog's tagline. I love how he sometimes equates baseball and football with themes and characters from great literature when he's in a sports frame of mind.

Anyway, I basically agree, more or less, with Robin's views and those of his sources. I just thought I'd add my own two or three cents worth today. When we talk about this film, like it or not, it's the explosive ending we talk about. Since, to my mind, everything that happens before in THELMA AND LOUISE is just impetus driving them to that final flight off the cliff. (Really, any other ending would have flattened the film, as Robin says in a comment response.) That 'leap' is the metaphorical f**k you to everything and everyone - mostly male - who have pissed the two women off in the entire movie (their entire lives). It is also a finger at us - society - but that's understandable. I mean, there comes a time when a woman can only take so much. (Though throughout history, we seem to have 'taken' a helluva lot.) That was my point - in a roundabout way- when I brought up the film at the end of my post about the colorfully named artist Rembrandt Peale's family life and his mother's death when Peale was 8 years old. It was really a throwaway line, but then it made me think maybe I should say a bit more.

I still am amazed it took women so long to take some kind of action against the injustices of a society that, over history, did not seem to value their existence except as sexual objects or brood mares. I'm NOT suggesting we all blow up trucks or shoot anyone or jump off a cliff or even that this action, in and of itself, is devoutly to be wished. Though these actions do occasionally flash through my mind, especially when reading history. Not to put too fine a point on it, I'm sure these actions did flash through many women's minds over the years when faced with little - if any - control over anything important that might, remotely, have have anything to do with their best interests.

But, it occurred to me, while reading about Peale's life, that, of course, 17 children (his mother died when he was 8 after having given birth to 17, only 6 of whom survived) seems excessive to us now. But even then surely there might have been someone who thought that maybe, this was not such a GOOD thing? I don't care how many farm hands you needed in the fields. And in Peale's family's case, there was not even the case. Or did this all come about because medicine was in such an infantile stage (which it really wasn't if you check out the medicinal knowledge abroad in the land in ancient Rome, not to mention, in the Middle East, but that's a story for another day), it was expected that some women would just have to give their lives to populate the earth? And if they didn't like the whole idea - oh well, tough. Jeez, it's a wonder any woman in her right mind ever married.

(Though I'm sure that even now AND throughout history there have been women who thought giving birth to 17 kids or more was/is a good idea. I'm not saying that ALL women must have felt the oppression this implies. I am not speaking for ALL women.)

Thelma and Louise were two characters whose ending was pre-ordained by the depth of outrage the males in their vicinity experienced when affronted by women who dared take offense at the treatment received at their hands OR who dared, occasionally, to laugh at men. (So in a way, the plot is actually driven by the reactions of men.) But Thelma and Louise's understanding of that simple fact is the spur at the end. Most male anger directed at the film appears to have taken affront at the whole idea of women daring to dish men. So as a 'wake-up' call I don't know how successful the thing was. But the film came at a good time, I think. Only because it actually showed women DARING. Not putting up with any more crap than they had to - though in the end of course, it means their destruction anyway. But the film became part of our vernacular and the object of many satirical jabs and pretensions of wit.

Driven by inclination, perhaps even by tunnel vision and by history, these two particular women had no choice but to do what they did: learn to fly. But gravity was against them. Despite what we know happened to that car and those bodies dashed to pieces on the rocks below, the ending does have a sort of dignity and graceful nobility. (After all, we're not actually shown the car falling.) Yeah, women are capable of l'esprit de gare. Maybe that is what rankled men in the audience. That and the unpalatable fact that Thelma and Louise preferred death to being dealt with by the men and the system which held power over them at that particular point in time. I mean, what was wrong with those bitches!?

Saturday Salon: A Favorite Painting

REUBENS PEALE WITH A GERANIUM by his brother, the American painter, Rembrandt Peale. (1778 - 1860) Talk about the pressure of a famous name!

I first saw this painting years ago on the cover of an Amercian Artist magazine. I had a visceral reaction: I held my breath. I've said before how some paintings occasionally do that to me. Well, this one did. I loved it immediately.

I knew nothing about the artist except that he, as well as his brother, had most colorful names. I read a little about him, then cut the painting from the magazine and pinned it on one of my bulletin boards. Over the years when I moved, I lost track of the painting. Recently I came across it once again in one of my books. This time I have a computer so, abracadabra I looked up Rembrandt Peale and found out more about him. Today's post is my effort not to misplace his splendid painting again.

Peale painted about 600 works in his long lifetime, many of them portraits of the famous of his time, i.e. George Washington, Thomas Jefferson.

But my favorites remain the gentle portrait of his brother, a gardening enthusiast, and his own self-portrait, below.

A disturbing and entirely personal aside: according to Wikipedia, Peale's mother gave birth to 17 children - only six of whom survived to adulthood. 17 children. She died when Rembrandt Peale was 8 years old. (Not, I think, much of a surprise.) It's a wonder to me that feminisim and the idea that, perhaps, women should have some control over their own bodies, took as long as it did to take root. It's a wonder to me that more women didn't, don't, more often, go berserk. At least in history. (No wonder Thelma and Louise dived off that freakin' cliff.)

Rembrandt Peale married, and his wife went on to give birth to 9 children. Maybe she ran out of stamina.

Friday: Favorite Read - THE WORD MUSEUM

A book that I dip into every now and then. Not a book to read in one fell swoop - more a book meant for a bit of fun research. But only if you're interested in the English language and its various perambulations.

THE WORD MUSEUM The Most Remarkable English Words Ever Forgotten by Jeffrey Kacirk

Okay, I'm just going to dive right in and post some of my favorite FORGOTTEN words and their meanings: My editorial comments are in blue. And before you get all eagle-eyed on me, some of the words are not - strictly - in alphabetical order.

agglutinants: Those medicines which have the power of uniting parts together. (Who knew you could glue body parts together? Think of the fun you passed up. Sorry, couldn't help myself.)

ambidexter: It is intended by this Latin word to designate one who plays both sides. In a legal sense it is taken for a juror or embraceor who takes money from both parties for giving his verdict. This is seldom or never done in the United States. (Of course not.)


antipodes: People who live on the other side of the earth to us, going with their feet directly against ours.


answer jobber: One who makes a trade of writing answers. (Hey, that sounds like... like - BLOGGING! We're 'answer jobbers'. Who knew?


babies in the eyes: The miniature reflection of himself which a person sees in the pupil of another's eye on looking closely into it.


ballop: The old name for the flap in the forepart of the breeches which is buttoned up; in English, formerly called the cod-piece. (No comment and I emphasize, NO comment.)


batterfanged: Beaten and beclawed, as a termagant will fight with her fists and nails... see clapperclaw.


beggars' velvet: Downey particles which accumulate under furniture from the negligence of housemaids. (The offending maid would obviously need to be butterfanged.)


bellitude: Beauty of person; loveliness; elegance; neatness.


bedfellow: It was formerly customary for men, even of the hightest rank to sleep together, and the term bedfellow implies great intimacy...Cromwell is said to have obtained much of his intelligence during the civil wars from common men with whom he slept. (How come they never taught us this in history class?)


biblioklept: A book-thief; one who purloins or steals books.


bibliothecary: Keeper of a library.


bubulcitate: To cry like a cow boy.


cabobble: To mystify, puzzle, confuse.


crunkle: To creake like a crane. (Don't even know what the meaning means. But I like the sound of the word.)


crapulous: Surcharged with liquor; sick by intemperence.


croodle: To snuggle, a young animal snuggles against its mother.


clamberskull: Strong drink that clambers up to the skull...


dog-draw: One of four causes by which a man may be arrested as a deer-stealer.


death-hunter: Persons who go from village to village, as a burial occurs, carrying small black stools called buffets, on which the coffin is rested while the funeral hymn is being sung in open air, in front of the house where the corpse has lain. (It never occurred to anyone to, maybe, fashion their own little stools to keep around the house in case of, I don't know...a death?)


disquixotted: Disillusioned.


errorist: One who errs, or encourages and propagates error. (Instantly springs
to mind: Bush the errorist. Who knew?)


exlex: An outlaw. (Not the first thing I'd have thought of.)


flattybouch: One who goes from place to place in a van during the summer months, but lives in a houe during the winter.


gardyloo: A cry which servants in the higher stories of Edinburgh give, after 10 o'clock at night, when they throw their dirty water from the window. (No sane comment is possible.)


giggle-trot: A woman who marries when she is far advanced in life...


idle-worms: Worms bred in the fingers of lazy girls, an ancient notion...It was supposed, and the notion was probably encouraged for the sake of promoting female industry, then when maidens were idle, worms bred in their fingers...! (Now we know how women became the workers they are: fear of worms!)


man-browed: Having hair growing between the eyebrows.


married all over: Said of women who, after their marriages, fall in their appearance and become poor and miserable looking. (Never said of men, of course.)


merry-go-sorry: A mixture of laughing and crying.


peccable: Liable to sin.


pixilated: Led astray, as if by pixies; confused, bewildered. (Been there. Done that.)


quanked: Overpowered by fatigue. (I'm often quanked at the end of the blogging day.)


swazz: To swagger.


trinkle: To eavesdrop.


tweeny-maid: A servant who assisted both cook and housemaid.


vomitory: A door of a large building by which the crowd is let out. (No comment. Though I'm dying to make one.)


weatherspy: A stargazer, astrologer, wizard.


There are plenty more where these came from. Read the book. Check out the website. It's a lot of fun. Some of these words are so preposterous that they entertain in and of themselves. Some are just downright funny. Some, infuriating. Some, just plain mean. Some just plain 'flarting'.

Here's the scary part for me: I actually knew what some of these words meant. C'mon, I'm NOT that old.

Damn me, if I'm not 'quanked' and the day not even over yet.

A stylish 'STYLISH' Award for Yours Truly.

Thanks to Pretty Sinister Books. (Read this or else...!) My blog is now the proud possessor of a Stylish Blog Award. This was an unexpected surprise, but a great way to begin a Friday. Thank you, John.

John Norris is a writer, blogger and bookseller of, all together now: Pretty Sinister Books! He has a love for the older, classic mystery, the out-of-print, vintage books on crime, adventure and the supernatural. Plus he's a pretty stylish guy. And like me, he's a new blogger. Point of fact: he's even newer than me. If you love vintage mysteries and everything that goes with 'em, check out John's Stylish blog.

Ah, the life of a 'stylish' blogger. Never a dull moment. I'm supposed to send this award out to three other bloggers I find especially stylish. Well, not that easy to do since all the blogs I read are known for their sylishness and pizzazz. Otherwise, of course, I would not be reading them. HA! We are known by the company we keep. Wait a sec', I need to adjust my feather boa.

Picture me now as I accept this honor: Diamond tiara, purple feather boa, green fleece sweatshirt, baggy red plaid flannel pants and bright pink fuzzy slippers. I mean, tell me, really: just how much more stylish can a person be? And by the way, why isn't Vogue calling? (Just kidding about the tiara and the boa - but if I HAD 'em, I'd wear 'em.)

Luckily, the award is for my blog which is a labor of love for me.

My three choices today to receive The Stylish Blogger Award are:

(in alphabetical order)

First Time Mama - First Time Blogger - What a surprise! My own daughter's blog is a great place to go to read not only about all things Julianna (my adorable granddaughter) but all things having to with raising the perfect child.(Just kidding, well, maybe not. Julianna IS pretty perfect.) Skye's blog is a terrific resource for all sorts of baby facts, 'how-to's, new ideas, new products, new everything (and some tried and true 'old school' stuff as well) having to do with babies. She even, occasionally, will include yummy quick and easy recipes for busy moms.

(An added bonus for me, as her mom, is that I'm learning new things about my own daughter. This blogging adventure has revealed a side of my kid that I never knew existed and makes me even prouder to be her mom.)

I Refuse To Go Quietly - writer and blogger Sue H's excellent blog on books and life, featuring her own wonderful short stories and whatever else she might be writing at any given moment. Sue has been one of my own loyal blogging friends since the very beginning and I remain grateful to her for her friendship and encouragement. She was also a contributor to my own little fiction challenge which ended a few days ago and resulted in her own terrific entry. Check out her blog if you're in the mood for style and good writing.

Squeezegut Alley - Writer, blogger and vintage film enthusiast Nicolas Pillai's blog is dedicated to film, film, and more film, oh - and crime fiction as well. All vintage - all the time. I'm so glad I discovered Nicolas's blog though I can't remember exactly where and when. - ah well, the important thing is that I did. Nicolas has been a great supporter, posting comments and joining in whenever I blog about old films and mysteries, I love. (Which is often. Who knew there were this many vintage film and book lovers out there?) Nicolas also contributed a wonderful entry in my recent short story challenge, so I thank him for that as well. Go check out his posh blog.

Hope to see you all later at the Stylish Awards dinner and dance. Tiaras optional. Remember: stylish is as stylish does.

The Perfect Sentence.

Once in a great while but very rarely, I'm afraid, I will come across a sentence that just knocks me for a loop. A sentence that makes me stop, look around for support (even if there's no one else in the room except my dog), point to the sentence and say: "Will you look at this? Pay attention, now." Then I read it aloud. (My dog pretends to listen.) This moment is often accompanied by the urge to run to the window and demand the world's attention. A perfect sentence is nothing to sneeze at.

Luckily for me, I've never given in to this urge.

But I've decided I need a place to post perfect sentences of my acquaintance whenever - if ever - I come across one. This blog is my way, I suppose, of running to the window and demanding the world's attention.

A perfect sentence is a funny thing. I believe it doesn't, necessarily, have to have anything to do with its surroundings. Oh, it helps if it blends in. But occasionally, I've fallen in love with sentences that are living la vida loca by themselves. Just existing in their own little universe at the beginning, middle or end of a book. The rest of the manuscript can be mediocre OR wowza! Doesn't much matter. (Though of course, wowza! is much to be preferred.)

The string of words which may capture your eye, your imagination and your understanding of perfection can exist on its own, independent of what else is going on around it. I truly believe that. Sometimes you come across a sentence like this and if you sound it out, you will hear music. In that case it is the sound of the words rubbing together to make some sort of agreeable noise.

Or sometimes, it's the combo of sound and word selection. There are some words which are exceptionally pretty to view and say aloud. Then there are the words which in and of themselves are gently innocuous but when placed side by side with just exactly the right companions, they are transformed into shooting stars.

So, okay, indulge me. I'm going to give over a little section of my blog to perfection. Not quotes, although of course, they will be quotes since the sentence will be taken from the pages of books I may be reading. But they will not be chosen so much for meaning in the context of the story, as for meaning you might make of them on their own, separate from the story. Perfect sentences that can exist just for the sheer joy of perfection. Can words be beautiful on their own apart from contextual meaning?

I think so.

Of course, if none of this makes any sense to you, then oh well, I did my best to explain . Move along, move along, there's nothing more for you to see. Ha!

I'll begin with just one sentence posted on here for now. One - until I'm lucky enough to come across another piece of perfection. Of course, that may be: never. Or next week. One never knows.

I'm going to begin - not with Shakespeare which is rather the more obvious choice - with a sentence I found in a Jordan Ellenberg's exceptional debut novel THE GRASSHOPPER KING. (His only novel, I'm afraid. Ellenberg told me, by email, that he wasn't going to be writing any more fiction for awhile. He wanted to focus more fully on his mathematical pursuits. I believe he's a math professor.) Well, I suppose having once made such a brilliant debut he can rest on his laurels. Having written the most gorgeously perfect sentence within that debut doesn't hurt either. No matter if he never writes another book, I'll have that sentence.

But I have to tell you, this one of my all time favorite novels - a book I honestly cherish. When I read it I kept thinking, wow. Wow. Wow. All the way through. It's THAT kind of thing. The book is basically a fiendishly clever (and often hilarious) take on fate, irony, myth, marriage, the perils of university life, tenure and, oh yes, bad poetry. Doesn't sound very appetizing, does it? But I can't describe it any differently. This is a book that you either clasp to your bosom from the first few sentences or you don't. I did.

Occasionally if it reminded me of anything, it reminded me of Pulitzer Prize winning author Richard Russo's take on university life, STRAIGHT MAN. (Another book I recommend if you like the university setting as a background for mildly bizzaro doings.)

Well, okay, this is not really meant as a review of THE GRASSHOPPER KING which I will not review fully for fear of not being able to reveal its exquisiteness to you in a way that will make you run right out and get a copy for your very own. There are books I just love too, too much to risk you not liking them. It's a personal thing. I couldn't bear it if you told me, well Yvette, I just don't know what you see in this boring old thing. Nope. Don't want to go there.

Herewith, that perfect sentence lifted from Jordan Ellenberg's book:

My father, a mild man, dedicated to prudent consistency, demurred.

A sentence that sings to me of all sorts of things. Said aloud it is music to my ears. Looked at, it is beautiful. Dissected, it could have several meanings. The word 'demurred' purrs.

What next? I hope to be adding to The Perfect Sentence every now and then as I run across something that strikes me as exceptional.

To those of you who may have understood this odd little post of mine, I say: prepare to share any perfect sentence you may come across in your day to day reading. Keep your own aesthetic eye on the look-out.

And, by the way, I'm not going to be going through the books on my shelves in search of perfection. No, I am just going to begin keeping my eye out, from this day forward, not forcing the issue, depending on happenstance. (If I wanted to, obviously, I could just sit here and pick through Shakespeare or the English poets and come up with perfection by the bucketful. But that would be too easy. Easy is not what this is about. It's more of an on-going treasure hunt.

10 Favorite British Films

I was going to wait until tomorrow to post this list, the idea for which I've stolen from Peter Swanson at his blog, ARMCHAIR AUDIENCE (Isn't that a great title?) And I LOVE his tagline: Books read. Movies Seen. TV watched. Why didn't I think of that? Well, go see his list and the other major list of a Hundred Best posted by Time Out then come back and see my list. The reason I'm not waiting till tomorrow is this: I'll be running some errands Thursday from early in the morn till who knows when, so how much posting I'll get done is problematic. Plus I owe a post to the Alphabet Crime Fiction Meme (I skipped E, last week, so I'm playing catch-up to with F, this week.) and that's not even written yet...

I haven't seen THE KING'S SPEECH, A SINGLE MAN or TOPSY TURVY, so depending on how I feel about these films when I do see them, the list today may be adjusted at some point down the line. Well, it's all fluid anyway. None of this stuff is cast in cement. LOCAL HERO would have made the list easy except I had to make room for A ROOM WITH A VIEW. So count it as number 11 and BRIDGE ON THE RIVER KWAI is 12. And wait, wait, what about BRIEF ENCOUNTER, DAY OF THE JACKAL, THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL? CASINO ROYALE? (The one with Daniel Craig, of course.) And AN IDEAL HUSBAND and COLD COMFORT FARM? MASTER AND COMMANDER? ANGELS AND INSECTS? Another gem: EDUCATING RITA. See what I mean? Impossible. I give up.

At some point I'll do 10 more, because really, this whole thing is a hopeless enterprise. I've loved British films since I was a kid, so you know there are dozens more that could easily be on this list. But for now:

10 FAVORITE BRITISH FILMS

10) THE WRONG BOX (1966)

Not only a wrong box, but a wrong-headed bunch of characters in a delirium of a funny film set in Victorian England. Michael Caine, Sir Ralph Richardson, John Mills, Dudley Moore, Peter Cook and Peter Sellers. What more can you possibly say?

9) A ROOM WITH A VIEW (1985)

From the extraordinary opening credits to the very romantic end, this is just a gorgeously realized Merchant/Ivory creation based on E.M. Forster's book. I am always spellbound when I watch it. Helena Bonham Carter, Julian Sands, Maggie Smith, Rupert Graves, Daniel Day-Lewis. An embarassment of riches.

8) ORLANDO (1992)

Can't figure out still, what this film is about. But it doesn't matter. It is so breathtakingly beautiful - like sitting in the middle of a painting and letting it wash over you. Tilda Swinton is a national treasure.

7) BILLY ELLIOT (2000)

Working class life as spawning ground for art, in this case : ballet. And, unexpectedly, not a girl's story, but a boy's. Jamie Bell as Billy is spectacular.

6) THE RED SHOES (1948)

Moira Shearer. More ballet. This time as madness. The only thing that throws me off about this otherwise GORGEOUS film are the male actors. Such a bunch of unattractive ninnies I haven't seen since...well, since I don't know when.

5) THE LADY VANISHES (1938)

Alfred Hitchcock at his early best. Michael Redgrave looking good. But the old lady and the two stiff-upper-lip cricket mavens steal the show.

4) BLACK NARCISSUS (1947)

A nunnery on a remote Nepalese mountain top, seething passions, madness, a cold sweeping wind which makes every one just a little nuts and a surly David Farrar. Ah, the stuff of life. Just a sensational film. Moody as hell despite it's bright colors. Sabu as a prince easily distracted and Jean Simmons in her first role, as a peasant beauty who does the distracting. Deborah Kerr, swooningly beautiful as the 'mother' superior.

3) THE 39 STEPS (1935)

Better than the book. Robert Donat is so gorgeous, so sensual, so sexy. And he doesn't even have any love scenes, really. Madeleine Carroll comes close to ruining the film, but she can't help the way the part was written. I love the beginning most when Hanney picks up the spy at the theater and they go back to his flat and he fixes her a fried haddock. Also love the short but heartbreaking sequence in Scotland when Hanney is helped by an extraordinarily valiant woman married to a vicious wretch. LOVE the ending in the music hall. Another early Alfred Hitchcock classic.

2) BABE (1995)

In so many ways, such a beautiful, inventive film. It is funny and charming and just about perfect. A film about life, love, self-worth, honor, innocence and the trust that must exist among friends. That most of the 'friends' are barnyard animals doesn't detract from the story one iota.

1) LAWRENCE OF ARABIA (1962)

Peter O'Toole in the film that turns Lawrence into a god. (Lawrence himself, would have been very happy with it, I think.) David Lean's romanticized view of Lawrence results in scenes of stark, breathtaking beauty though he doesn't spare the story's inherrent violence. The film features one of the most spectacularly effective 'cuts' in film history: the lit match cut to the desert.

Okay, time to list your favorites. Take heart. It's all in fun. Really.

Wednesday: Quote for the Day

" God, I love the smell of irony in the morning."

G.M. Ford (Fury)

An Incredible Win at Westminster Dog Show: Hickory, the Scottish Deerhound - Best in Show!

And I missed it. Darn! Meant to watch online and totally forgot. For the first time in history, a Scottish Deerhound has won Best in Show at the prestigious Westminster Dog Show. Hickory is just a gorgeous, gorgeous dog. I'll see if I can find the story today to watch. USA Network has a very confusing set of links, but I will persevere. I want to see that video!!
Found it at last!

Read more about the win at this link: The Scottish Deerhound . (You can watch the video of Best In Show judging here as well.) The Scottish Deerhound is an amazing dog and maybe not as well known in this country as other breeds. It is a beautiful, statuesque dog steeped in history. I am thrilled that finally, not only a Deerhound won, but that a BIG dog finally got Top Ribbon. More info on the Scottish Deerhound breed here.

I have a special fondness for Deerhounds for another reason too:

Before Rocky came into my life, I lived with another dog: Beemer. She was half Scottish Deerhound and half Shepherd and I loved her dearly till the day she passed away at the age of 14 a few years ago. She was the most charming mix of shyness, worry and playfulness and her face always registered a question which I tried, her whole life, to answer. I got Beemer from a rescue situation (she had been mistreated) and it took me more than a year to earn her complete trust. Even then, I had to be careful with sudden hand movements because she sometimes mistook it for aggression from me and would cower. Very sad. (Eventually though, she did get over this as well, thank goodness.) I had a two-fold task: To try and make her forget her mistreatment at the hands of some wretched humans and to try and make her as happy as I possibly could. I think I succeeded. She loved me and I, her, and not a day goes by that I don't miss her.

I've been fortunate to have lived with many wonderful dogs in my life and each one was always so special to me, each so unique in character and personality. Each one left behind their own brand of indelible memories. I always say: if there is a heaven, my dogs better be there waiting for me on the banks of that river. If the pure heart of a dog can't enter heaven - what chance do I have?

Years ago we used to attend Westminster on one or the other of the two nights, at Madison Square Garden. To see this extravaganza in person is so much fun! But it's also a learning experience AND an opportunity to spend a bit of time shopping as well since there are tons of dealers with wonderful dog paraphernalia to sell. My gorgerous dog print that sits right in front of me on the wall above my computer was bought at Westminster. The print cost 10 bucks and a hundred, later, to have it framed. Worth every penny for the joy I get out of looking at it everyday. For dog lovers like me, Westminster was and continues to be, a kind of Valhalla.

Besides watching the judging from the seats, the most fun is walking through the 'bench' area at Westminster, where the dogs being shown that day are kept. It is always a kind of organized frenzy. AND believe it or not, it doesn't smell bad at all, well, unless you don't appreciate doggy scent. I happen to love 'doggy scent'.

Dogs in the 'bench' area are either resting, being groomed, petted, just lying around sleeping or lined up to go to the bathroom in the designated area or taking in the sights in the same way the humans crowded around them are doing. It's a great mix of dog and man and really, it's just plain wonderful. Oh, and if you're so inclined, you can talk dog business with the various dog people/owners/groomers in attendance keeping a watchful eye on their charges.

One time I remember finding myself in the middle of several enormous Briards milling about me and thinking it was like being caught up in a herd of cows. Just a lovely, lovely experience I will never forget.

A Favorite Film: TWENTIETH CENTURY starring John Barrymore and Carole Lombard

It's John Barrymore's birthday today so my Tuesday Favorite Film post, naturally, is about one of my all time favorite films. TWENTIETH CENTURY. A manic screwball comedy directed by Howard Hawks. A film that made me fall off the sofa laughing. No harm done, except to my dignity.

John Barrymore was one of those legendary actors who, far as I'm concerned, was best in roles that mocked his legendary status. He was superb in comedy. That devilish twinkle in his eye was picked up by the camera and you knew that he knew that you knew. Know what I mean? He really was the most awful scoundrel. It did him in, in the end, just as it did Erroll Flynn and several other charming, reckless, carousing types. Not easy people to be around, in reality (unless you were of similar type), not easy people to like or marry or live with, I imagine. But, on film, they occasionally made magic.

The one dramatic role I liked Barrymore in, was GRAND HOTEL.)

Anyway, in TWENTIETH CENTURY (the film is named after the cross-country train on which a great deal of the action takes place.), Barrymore plays Oscar Jaffee a has-been Broadway producer/director/actor who spends most of the film trying to get his one-time protege - now Hollywood star - Lily Garland (played by Carole Lombard), to star in his new come-back show. That's basically it. It's in the way Barrymore and Lombard go about this, not to mention the stellar supporting cast of wonderful character actors headed by the inimitable Roscoe Karns. Everyone in this film has their own madcap agenda, their own reason for pushing the two stars together or attempting to keep them apart.

Oh, and did I mention that most everyone in the film is nutso? Well, yeah. It's a fact. Movie-nutso, as opposed to reality-nutso. So it's okay to laugh.

Barrymore and Lombard play theatrical types, heavy on the temperament and overblown gesture. They live to make Drama out of every day life - turmoil is their middle name. Neither of them is very likable. You don't really care what happens to them in the end. It's one of those comedies that sort of spins on its own, perpetual frenzied motion. AND YET - yeah, you want to see what preposterous thing happens next. You can't help it. It's all so absurd. The film has its own lunatic lure. In a way, you can't help feeling a bit dejected that you don't know anyone like this in real life. These people may all be crazy but boy, do they have fun and she makes the most of it. Barrymore plays another caricature of himself (something I think he got used to doing over the years) but does it so manically and so theatrically that you get caught up in it despite knowing that he really is just a perfect ham-bone.

Lombard is no better, first as a young actress who catches Barrymore's eye and is given a small role in one his early Broadway smash hits. She then allows herself to be seduced into stardom, literally and figuratively. There is one scene near the beginning of the film when Lombard is crying on Barrymore's shoulder over some nonsense or other and you can see Barrymore skillfully guiding her backwards towards his dressing room while seeming to console her. Finally he gets her in the room, her back to us, his face leering out at the camera as he grins and closes the dressing room door on us. SO FUNNY! What a dreadful man!

But really, Lombard is his flamboyant equal. She plays Lily Garland as a temperamental, borderline hysteric using Barrymore to get ahead just as much as he's using her. Eventually she leaves his clutches and becomes a famous Hollywood star while Barrymore's career goes down the tubes after a series of bad productions.

When after some years, he gets his hands on a preposterous script for a Biblical (?!) play he wants to produce with Lombard as star, he makes plans to get her to sign on the dotted line for old time's sake, never mind that they parted on the most acrimonious of terms. (He can't get backing for the show unless Lily Garland stars in it.) On the eve of her planned marriage to some ridiculous Hollywood type (if I'm remembering correctly), they are all travelling together on the Twentieth Century either headed east or headed west - doesn't much matter.

Lombard's fiancee is the sort of perpetual weak-chinned, sniveling sort that these types always were in these films and among Barrymore's travelling companions is the one and only Roscoe Karns who play his wise-cracking agent as only Roscoe can. They're also accompanied by a bunch of loonies straight from central-casting who traipse in and out of scenes either stealing them or being overwhelmed by Barrymore and Lombard's duelling personalities. Among the train passengers is one harmless looking little guy who spends the trip passing out religous pamphlets and stickers. I can say no more or I'll ruin the fun. The funniest scene, from my view is one that involves a perceived attempt on Barrymore's life. I can say no more. I laughed until I cried and fell off the sofa. Comedy can be dangerous.

An aside: another of the traveling cast of outrageous characters is Charles Lane who went on to play these sorts of guys over and over and over again, later in television. The guy practically lived forever - he only passed away, finally, a couple of years ago. What can I say, he was the most wonderful, cantankerous type. There's no one like him in films today.

TWENTIETH CENTURY is a gem from devilish beginning to inspired end.

If you haven't seen it, you really must. But only if you enjoy laughing AND you have a weakness for Broadway/Hollywood types of the 30's and 40's AND a softspot for Barrymore and Lombard.

Fashion Week - Just a peek.

FALL FASHION WEEK going on as we speak in NYC.

A Fun event that presents itself otherwise. But then, I suppose if millions of dollars in retail sales are on the line, then some seriousness is called for. But honestly, people, it's not brain surgery nor is it rocket science. Still, I admit, I'm a sucker for it all. Carolina Herrera had a dress that knocked me out - the combo of colors was breath-taking. Possibly one of the most gorgeous dresses I've EVER seen in my life. (Couldn't lift it off the slide show - it's the tri-color one near the end with the blue strapless top.) OMG! What a dress! In certain hands, fashion can often reach the level of art.

I loved the Rachel Roy collection and the Y-3 collection. And even without seeing it, I KNOW I'll love the Ralph Lauren collection. Very few fashion houses can do Fall like Lauren. Well, truth to tell, very few houses can do Spring and Summer like Lauren. They are still my favorites. Can't wait to see the latest collection.

I'm one of those people who LOVES Fall and Winter clothing. Love the romance of bundling up, wrapping up, scarves flowing, men in 'great' coats and capes and top hats (not wearing that much today, but it's the whole idea of 'cutting a dashing figure' that I like). Lauren understands this best, I think. I love coats and scarves and boots and plaids and tweeds and combos of brown and gray and tan and olive and leather gloves and bags in all sorts of bright colors for contrast. Nothing much ever REALLY changes, but I always look forward to the Fall shows nonetheless.

A Favorite Poem

Didn't want to let Valentine's Day end without posting a favorite poem. Painting by Michael Sowa. See more of Sowa's work here.

ETERNITY by William Blake.

He who bends to himself a joy

Does the winged life destroy;

But he who kisses the joy as it flies

Lives in eternity's sunrise.

Short Story Challenge Results: The Portrait of Mademoiselle Gaudiet

On this sunny Valentine's Day, here is my Short Story which proposes (according to the spirit of the Challenge) to solve The Real-Life 70 Year Old Mystery written about by news sites, newspapers and bloggers last year. Read the real-life mystery and if you're intrigued by it all, read the fiction it inspired. I highly recommend you read the news story first.

An apartment in Paris on the Rue Pigalle, left unattended for 70 years. Amid the dust and clutter, gilded furniture, a giant stuffed bird, various objet d'art, but most intriguing: an undiscovered painting by the famed artist Giovanni Boldini - this much is true and intriguing. The rest, our concoctions, are fiction. Read all about it.

There were conflicting stories about the actual owner of the painting and the apartment, I went with the story that stated the woman who passed away last year was the granddaughter of the model who'd sat for the original portrait. I used that as the jumping off point. I've also, of course, changed all the names except for that of the artist, Giovanni Boldini. My version is entirely fiction and a product of my over-active imagination. I apologize in advance for going way over the original 1500 word limit, but once I began telling my story, I couldn't stop. I whittled it down as best I could. I hope you enjoy it, regardless.

And here are the links to three other inventive and creative bloggers who have joined in with their stories. THANK YOU you, Sue, Joyce and Nicolas for participating.

I hope you will visit their blogs, read the stories and leave a comment or two. Of course, I'd love for you to leave a comment or two here as well. As you like.

THE LADY IN PINK by Sue H at I Refuse to Go Quietly

SANCTUARY by Joyce at J.F. Juzwik's Blog

CHANSON DE MONTMARTE by Nicolas at Squeezegut Alley

LAST RITES by Estie at Oasis Stories

THE PORTRAIT OF MADEMOISELLE GAUDIET

Martine Gaudiet died 70 years to the day she abandoned the flat near the rue Printemps, having kept her oath never to set foot in it again. As a girl she'd lived there with two women of differing temperaments. Her mother Fleur, impatient and resentful, a pretty woman skilled in frivolous theatricality which some men mistook for charm.
In contrast, Martine's beloved grandmother had been an incomparable. A rare beauty graced with wit and true charm of manner. In her heyday, that gift of beauty had brought Celine Gaudiet fame and occasional fortune as a sought-after artist's model. One of her lovers had been the well-known painter, Giovanni Boldini. He'd painted an exquisite portrait of Celine - La Dame Rose - and given it to her, requesting that, for the sake of his wife, she never sell it unless she found herself desperate for cash and even then, only after his death.
Celine's many love letters, kept wrapped in red satin ribbon were a subject of endless fascination for a young girl. Though Martine was not allowed to read them, now and then Celine would unfold one of the less florid and read it aloud. If asked about the meaning of it all, Celine would smile and look fondly at Martine, the mirror image of herself, and say with a touch of regret, "Beauty makes some men babble."
Even as she aged, Celine would still receive gifts from old suitors. Men who remembered the young model in love with life and how they, in their eagerness would do anything to draw from her a charming smile, hoping then to be treated to one of her throaty laughs. Her sense of humor was legendary.
But most of the 'treasures' in the flat were gifts from another age. When, once upon a time, a famed post-impressionist given to grand gestures, had gifted her with the tall, stuffed emu that still stood in their living room, Celine rewarded him by posing nude for a painting long since disappeared from the flat. Celine knew her daughter Fleur had sold the painting (without permission) during a particularly harsh winter when they were low on funds and she'd wanted, among other things, a new fur coat, but Celine said nothing. Martine and her grand-mama made up stories about the poor old emu and favored him with endearments.
Fleur Gaudiet had inherited Celine's features and dark hair, but not her heart-stopping beauty. Nor was she her mother's equal in generosity or vibrant spirit. Martine dutifully loved her mother, but adored her grand-mama whose vivacious daily presence brightened her lonely adolescence.
Celine never married, had never really loved. It was her one regret. She theorized that the closest she'd ever come to love was with the artist, Boldini. His painting of her in the pink satin dress was a true prize. She knew he'd come closest to loving her in the first moments when he put paint to canvas. Fleur's father, a cousin of Manet's who'd died young, had been merely a one night's entertainment. Celine could not even remember his face.
She'd refused, over the years, to sell the Boldini, despite Fleur's obvious wish to do so. To prevent her from getting her hands on La Dame Rose, Celine willed it to her granddaughter knowing she would have the sense to hang onto it. Just days before Celine's death, she brought up the painting again. "It will be your little nest egg, dear Martine. Guard it well."
*******************
In 1939, war with Germany was an eye sore on the horizon, but the French were assured their Maginot Line would hold. Martine's mother counted as one of her lovers, a member of the German ambassador's staff, an interpreter with high aspirations who worked at the embassy and so kept Fleur abreast of the latest war news. He told her that autumn, war with France was inevitable. But he assured Fleur and her beautiful daughter that they would be taken care of. He would see to it personally, once Paris was in the hands of his countrymen.
Fleur immediately began making plans for the future. With Otto's help, they would prosper. The man was besotted. She wondered aloud if Dior would have a new collection in the coming year then assured herself that of course, he would. Martine was alarmed by her mother's attitude, but not surprised. Her job as one of Monsieur Worth's runway models earned Martine enough to set some savings aside, so La Dame Rose still hung in her proper place on the living room wall. Martine made her own plans to leave Paris and hoped her mother would come to her senses when the time came.
********************
Monsieur le Comte de Beauville, the 48 year old head of an old aristocratic family and married father of two sons, glared first at his chauffeur, then down at the flat tire, then back up at the chauffeur. "Well?"
"I can do nothing, Sir. The rubber is worn through."
"Isn't there a spare something or other in the boot?"
"It is being mended. I was to stop for it this afternoon. But there were rabble in the streets. The striking workers are out again en force." He shrugged. "Paris is in a frenzy."
Beauville's gangly 13 year old son, Philippe, leaned against the side of the car and rolled his eyes in a perfect imitation of his father.
Beauville stifled a smile. "Well, we're stranded here for now. Madame will have to go on without us." He reached for his cigarette case but as he did so, a girl approaching on a bicycle arrested his movement.
Later, Beauville, never before given to thoughts of an epic romantic nature, realized that the entirety of his comfortable existence had irrevocably changed in the few seconds it took for him to glance across a street and behold the wary countenance of 19 year old Martine Gaudiet.
**********************
"When word comes from me and only from me, cherie, you must move swiftly." He'd given her the keys both to a Citroen and the house in Nice. Also a letter of introduction to his banker for Martine (and her mother, if necessary) to draw enough funds to manage until he could find a way to join them. He must see to his family. The boys, Philippe and Jean Paul.....Martine understood.
If the Germans became bothersome, he promised somehow, to take Martine out of the country. He'd submitted another official request for passports. One of the few times his title might actually do some good.
**********************
Summer, 2010.
I bumped into Karl Roquette at Espinoza's groomer. We hadn't seen each other in ages. I'd taken Bruno in to have his coat clipped and while this necessary exigency was on-going, Karl and I went down the street to Le Chat Noir for a coffee. He noted my use of the cane, (a little spill I'd taken that past winter) but said nothing.
He made sure to point out the large white truck parked in front of his building as we took our seats at an outdoor table. I shrugged.
"You are finally showing your age, Jean Paul," he said with a smug smile, as if something tremendously witty had been imparted.
But my silence outwitted him. A bit disconcerted, he studied me for a moment then began tapping his fingers at the table's edge. "Where is that waiter?"
"All right," I said with a smile. "Tell me about the truck."
"It arrived out of the blue, this morning. What a racket. They're emptying the fourth floor flat. I watched from the window. A few large pieces were brought down early - a gilded dressing table. Those men are from an auction house. They have the look."
The waiter ambled over and we ordered.
"I wonder which auction house..." I said.
Karl shrugged. "Probably Sotheby's. Madame Fontenay on the third floor heard the men swooning over a painting."
"Ah, you saw it? "
"They brought it out wrapped in sheets. Hard to believe, a painting worth millions - "
"Surely not," I interrupted.
"But yes. Didn't I say the Fontenay woman heard them talking? All these many years, it was up there, languishing in dust..."
I could read his thoughts writ plainly across his handsome face. If only I'd known. Good thing you didn't, my fine lady, I thought.
The waiter brought our coffee and pastries.
Karl took a sip of his coffee, grimaced, looked at the truck, then, as a deliberate afterthought, said, "It's a wonder the man I saw skulking around the building the other night didn't break in. I'll bet he knew there was something worth having up there. He'd probably sniffed it out. He looked a type. Some old bum."
"What man? Why didn't you call me immediately?" I bit into the glazed pastry. "You know what a boring life I lead."
Karl gave me one of his blank looks.
Perhaps I overdid it. "Tell me everything." I dabbed at my lips.
"Monday evening. I was home early from the theater. Espinoza had a cough." He glanced at his watch. "He will be impossible this afternoon. He loathes the groomer."
"Last Monday evening - ?"
"I called the police. Much good they did. The man disappeared by the time they showed up."
"Were you able to get a picture?"
"It was too dark. Besides, my phone is one of those new touchy-feely things."
"Ah," I said. "Say no more. It always takes me weeks to figure out a new phone."
Karl pretended not to notice I was having fun.
"But the police didn't think much of it. They were actually quite annoyed."
"Cochon." I commiserated.
"He could have crept into the building and murdered us all in our beds. You know what Paris is these days," He shrugged. "And now, this week, a truck shows up and they are taking everything out of the apartment. Very suspicious."
"It is a mystery." I finished another pastry. "Really my dear, you should try one of these."
He looked at me with something like distaste. "Some old biddy owned the place since before the war. Went south when the Nazis came. She never returned. Perhaps she died there."
"Many old biddies died," I said. "In the war."
This time the look was one of suspicion. Suddenly feeling benevolent I signalled the waiter and ordered another round of pastries.
"Well, she wouldn't have been an old biddy then, Jean Paul." said Karl. "Listen to what I'm telling you. The owner has been paying upkeep on the flat for years. Who knows why? No one's lived there since the war. But, maybe now..." He shrugged again. "I may want it for myself. I understand it is twice the size of my place and with a skylight." He mused in silence for a moment.
"The whole affair bristles with peculiarities," I said.
He twisted his lips into a smile. "Well, maybe the old woman had Alzheimer's. It's all the rage."
I turned to look as two men carried a huge stuffed bird out of Karl's building.
"Is that an emu?"
"An ostrich." He sniffed. "Did I tell you that the flat was full of furniture? Wall-to-wall, and objet d'art. But everything, everything buried in a thick layer of dust. Or so I hear."
"You did get a look," I said.
The smug smile returned. "Well, just a tiny peek on our way out. By mistake this morning we went up the stairs instead of down."
We both laughed.
"Did you take any pictures?"
"I told you, my damn phone is brand new. It's all apps this and apps that - who the hell can figure it out? Besides, I sneezed - the dust. Then this tall brute of a man barred the door. I only got a moment's impression."
I looked once more at the truck. "Really, I think that's an emu."
Karl grew annoyed. He took out a pack of cigarettes. "Well - a dead bird. On that we can agree."
***********************
I made a phone call. "He knows nothing." I said when I heard the familiar voice.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"He saw me the other night."
"Only for a moment. Philippe, what on earth possessed you to come up here, especially now?"
"I don't know...Perhaps I wanted to see if there was anything more to be done. What about the painting?"
"Taken straight to the auction house. Fermier's on Blvd. Napoleon. I had a chat with the very obliging concierge."
"Good. It will make its way into the marketplace. Finally someone will buy it and that will be the end of it."
"It is a great deal of money."
"I will not interfere. The lawyers will look for an heir. But they will find none. There should have been heirs, Jean Paul. There should have been a houseful of heirs."
*****************************
Once the painting was authenticated, it was all over the internet. The art world was ripe with stories for weeks. It was the mystery of the thing, you see. A newly discovered work of art, identified with the help of an old love letter. Giovanni Boldini. Collectors world-wide went on the alert. The painting sold finally, for nearly 3 million U.S. dollars.

*****************************
That following winter I went to stay with my brother at his home in Nice. His health was failing and I wanted to see for myself if he would last the year. We sat and talked on the terrace of the house Martine had lived in, alone, for nearly 70 years. He talked about her more freely then. Her death had released him from his self-imposed restraint.
"Martine was that rarest of women, Jean Paul," he said.
I agreed, as I always did.
"Until the day she died, she never stopped loving father. All her life she kept herself only for him. She would have no other." He looked off into the fading afternoon light. "The painting - stolen by that cochon of a Bosch interpreter, Otto Dietrich. " He spat the name out. "Well, you know the old story. He hoped to ingratiate himself into some Nazi inner circle." Here he stopped and forced a laugh. "Hitler was an art lover. So Dietrich strangled Fleur Gaudiet and left the body for Martine to find - as payment. Martine had repeatedly spurned his clumsy advances." He paused.
I waited.
"But somehow, she managed to get the painting back. I've never known how, never wanted to know. In the process Dietrich himself was killed and so was father. He took the bullet meant for her. That much Martine told me."
I nodded. "The bullet that went through his body, grazed Martine and left her blind."
He let out a sigh. "From that moment, the painting became a deadly thing. But she could not bring herself to destroy it. It was, after all, the portrait of her beloved grand-mama. So she left it in the flat - maybe planning someday to come back for it. But as time passed she put it out of her mind. In the end, she left it for fate to decide. She never spoke of it again, at least not to me."
"And you helped her all these many years. The house. The upkeep on the flat. The monthly check she could not return."
"Father would have wanted me to."
"And you're still sure she never knew of your feelings for her?"
"I only saw her a few times a year, don't forget. Only when something needed doing at the house or she invited me to dinner. She managed very well on her own. I never wanted to pry. But of course I kept an eye out. I did ask her to marry me once - I lost my head - but she turned me down with such sadness I could never bring myself to ask again."
"How could you bear it?" I always asked him. Such loneliness. I never married because of inclination, but Philippe had not married because he could never find a woman to compare to his youthful dream of Martine.
"I loved her, Jean Paul. Only her. It was my joy to take care of her, to see to her happiness in any way I could. I fell in love with Martine when I was 13 and for me, that was that. But it was our father she loved, and he, her. They had just a few weeks together, but those weeks lasted a life time. He gave his life for her." He shook his head. "For Martine, the flat became a tomb, the painting - un malediction."
We sat in silence for awhile. Finally, I poured the wine. "To Monsieur le Comte," I said and held up my glass to the last rays of sunlight.
"And to his beloved, Martine," said Philippe.