"He's fucking terrifying," She whispers. "But…I kinda like him."
I laugh and turn the laugh into a cough. "I have a feeling he'd get a kick out of that."
We follow Jean-Paul, accompanied by his body-painted girlfriend or whatever she is, and her tigers, through a doorway, down a shallow, curving stair, along a corridor with walls of bare stone warmed by thick handwoven tapestries and carpets, lit by more modern Edison bulbs in ornate wrought iron sconces fashioned to look like torches. The ceiling is a barrel vault, and each stone looks soot-stained, aged and ancient in a way I doubt you can fake.
"Jean-Paul?" Terra queries. "May I ask you a question?”
"Certainly."
"This castle…" she pauses to reverently run her fingers along a tapestry that looks like it could be every second of a thousand years old. "Is it what it seems? Or is it a clever reproduction?"
He gives a dry chuckle. "It is precisely what it looks like, my lovely. It is my family's ancestral home, exactly as it stood for a millennia."
"But…"
He forestalls her question with the answer. "I am the last of my line. When my father died some ten years ago, of esophageal cancer, I was faced with a choice: retire from my business here in the US or move to France and administer the family estate there. I could not do both. Seeing as I am—for a plethora of reasons, most of my own doing—persona non grata in my home country, and indeed most of Europe, it was a simple choice. Business-wise, at least. I had, and have, however, an enduring love for my home—this place." He extends his arms and spins in a circle while walking forward. "So, I left the estate and family business to my younger sister and had the family seat moved here and rebuilt, stone by stone. It was, I admit, a heinously costly endeavor, even for me. The work of rebuilding it without erasing the sense of age, the weight of centuries…it was painstaking. A true labor of love." He pauses. "The laborers are all buried in the foundation, of course."
Terra gasps, and Jean-Paul cackles.
"My ancestors would have done exactly that, but I am not so wasteful. They were artisans and craftsmen. Plus, how could I have buried them in the foundation if I needed them to continue the work?" He laughs again. "I jest, of course. I do have an unfortunate predilection for bloodily removing problems, but never en masse, and never wastefully." He glances at her. "Have you heard the one about the fountain?"
Terra gulps. "Um…yes."
"An exaggeration. There is a kernel of truth to the rumor, of course. The ghastly, comical fountain in my courtyard is in fact the result of an assistant who thought he was doing my bidding. I did want a fountain, but something more like the replica of the Trevi out front. There was no such fountain at our estate in France, just a measly old crumbling Roman bust, hardly worth the expense and hassle of moving. Anyway." He leads us left through a doorway and into a low-ceilinged room, wood-paneled, plush-carpeted, and furnished with deep leather couches and heavy mahogany tables, lit by a glassed-in fireplace that gives off light but no heat. "I was heartily displeased, I admit, but I did not kill the poor bastard. He was barely old enough to shave, and it was my mistake for not being more precise. I merely cut off his fingers." A laugh. "Another macabre jest. No, I scolded him, reassigned him, and kept the fountain as a reminder of my own hubris. Plus, I always get a good laugh whenever I see it. And my dear, in my line of work, one needs a good laugh."
There's a wooden sideboard on one wall, elaborately carved with lions’ heads and hawks and prancing deer, upon which is a crystal decanter of whiskey, several upturned tumblers, and another decanter of dark ruby wine with more upturned goblets.
"Whiskey or wine?" He asks Terra.
"Um…wine? Please?"
Without ceremony or production, he splashes a big pour from the decanter into a glass and carries it to Terra, indicating that she should sit.
She takes a sip, and her eyes bug out. "Um…I'm not a sommelier, by any means, but…Jesus. This is…"
Jean-Paul grins. "From the vineyards back home. I'm not certain how old it is, but likely a hundred years or so. Even the best wines lose potability after too long." He shrugs. "I would be hard-pressed to put a value on the bottle, honestly. It has never been sold, only produced for private consumption. I will say that many French kings have desired, striven, and machinated to get their hands on a single bottle, over the centuries. So, you are among a very rarified crowd who can claim to have drunk of that vintage."
Terra looks at the wine with suspicion. "I never know if you're kidding."
Jean-Paul finds this hilarious. "I know! I myself never know when I am going to be serious. Keeps one on one’s toes. But in this, I am quite serious." He looks to me, then. "As for you, my friend. Whiskey?"
"Of course, thank you, sir."
He pours generously from the whiskey decanter. Hands me one. "Curious?"
I sip. Inhale my shock. "My father was a whiskey connoisseur. I can't place it, but I know it's the best I've ever tasted."
"Yamazaki fifty-five year. The bottle went for over a million at auction." He grins. "I have a handful of bottles, obtained as a gift for services rendered to some business acquaintances in Japan."
"No shit? I've heard of it. My dad bid on a bottle, once, but the other guy wasn't about to lose, and Dad let it go. Bid on and won an entire cask of Macallan twenty-five year."
Jean-Paul nods. "Your father knew whiskey; I know that much. I also know he was a real dick."
A bark of laughter burst out of me. "His dickishness was renowned far and wide, it seems."
"Quite." Jean-Paul takes a seat in a deep, plush, well-worn armchair. Sips. Gestures at me with the index finger of the hand clutching his tumbler. "So. I am quite eager to hear this."
"I've spoken to Camilla. She's as eager to avoid conflict as you are. You are both in strong positions, Jean-Paul. She is several times the businesswoman her father ever was, from what I hear."
