Fantastic Metropolis

“May I help you?” he asked.

I did not speak immediately, waiting to see if the old man could again place me by my scent.

Just when I thought I had caught him off guard, he sniffed the air delicately and said, “Ah, Mr. Piambo. Good choice, sir. Please, come in out of the storm.”

I remained silent, wanting to give him no satisfaction.

He ushered me into an antechamber off the foyer and instructed me to wait there while he announced my arrival to the lady of the house. To my amazement, what was hanging over the divan on the wall facing me but an original Sabott. I recognized the piece immediately as one I had worked on while an apprentice in my mentor’s studio. It was called At Sea—a fanciful portrait of Mr. Jonathan Monlash, a well-known ship’s captain of the seventies with a famous predilection for the effects derived from smoking hashish. I had been no more than twenty at the time the work was done, and I could still recall the old sailor’s high spirits and unfailing sense of humor. If I remembered correctly, I had painted some of the demons dancing in a dizzying whirl around the head of the long-faced subject. At Monlash’s insistence, Sabott had rendered him with the nozzle of the hookah between his lips. Though made of pigment, the billows of gray-blue smoke issuing from the side of his mouth were so airy they seemed to be rolling and rising. I shook my head at the sight of this long-lost friend, knowing the piece must now be worth a small fortune. So distracted was I by the discovery of the portrait, I forgot where I was and did not notice Watkin’s return.

“This way, Mr. Piambo,” he said.

“Where is your violet suit today, Watkin?” I asked as I followed him out of the chamber and down a dark hallway.

“Violet?” he said. “I don’t recall owning a violet suit. Perhaps you are thinking of the puce.”

He led me through a sumptuously decorated dining room with crystal lamp fixtures whose reflections sparkled in the mirrorlike gloss of a long table. The walls were hung with paintings I recognized as originals by renowned artists, old masters as well as contemporaries of mine. We passed through a study lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, and then down a hallway paneled with aromatic cedar, no doubt from Lebanon.

Finally we came to a room at the very back of the house. My guide opened the door and stepped aside, motioning with his hand for me to enter. As I did, it struck me that Watkin had navigated the entire journey through the heavily furnished rooms without a hitch. I didn’t remember so much as one of his fingers touching a wall to find his place.

I found myself alone in a large, nearly empty space. There were no adornments here, and there was hardly any furniture to speak of. The ceilings were at least fifteen feet high, and there were two arched windows on either of the side walls. The left-hand view was of a fading rose garden in the rain, a few pale yellow petals still clinging to stems. The opposite view showed a piece of the neighboring house, its architecture silhouetted against the drab sky. To the very left at the back, there was an open door, revealing a shadowed stairway leading up. The floor was magnificent, of a pale maple inlaid with arabesques of a darker wood and waxed to a high sheen. The walls were papered with a green and gold floral design on a cream background. At the very center of the room there stood a screen, five feet tall, consisting of three panels in hinged cherrywood frames. On these panels, the color of old parchment, was depicted a scene of falling brown leaves.

Positioned in front of the screen was a simple wooden chair with a short back and wide armrests. Watkin, who had stepped into the room behind me and shut the door, said, “You are to sit in the chair. My employer will be with you momentarily.” I walked forward, my steps echoing as I went, and did as I was told. The moment I sat down, I heard the door open and close again.