I'd just ordered and was admiring myself in the mirror over my table when I saw him. The black T-shirt from the airport. Only he wasn't wearing a black T-shirt now. He never would have been al- lowed inside in that. He wore a black jacket over a white shirt and muddy green tie. The jeans had been set aside for dark trousers.
I didn't take my eyes away from his image in the mirror as he talked to the mattre d' for a moment, then walked toward me. I couldn't believe his brass.
"Dinner for one?" he asked. "That seems a lonely proposition."
"I like it," I said as I turned toward him. "And who the hell are you?"
"Ah," he said. "Well that's not as interesting as«who the hell you are."
"Look," I said, beginning to get impatient. "I don't know anything about you except that I saw you at O'Hare-and now you pop up here acting as though you know me. I don't like mysteries or peo- ple who think they're being clever when in fact they're just annoying."
He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite me.
"You haven't been invited," I said, frowning. "Go away."
"Now, now," he said. His voice had the faint twinge of British lower-class to it. "Someone your age shouldn't get so excited. It might not be good for your health."
I looked around for the mattre d', but he was talk- ing to a new group who'd just arrived.
"I must say, you look awfully good for someone who's at least five hundred years old by my calcula- tions."
He had my attention.
I looked at him carefully. He was working far too hard at being nonchalant. There was a telltale shine to his upper lip, and I could hear the dry click of his throat as he swallowed. Whatever he knew, it wasn't as much as he wanted to let on.
The waiter came with my soup. Vichyssoise. Thick and heavy with cream. He looked inquiringly at my new companion.
"Be so kind as to bring my friend here the same," I said. The waiter nodded and went away.
"What's that?" Black T-shirt asked.
"Vichyssoise," I replied.
He looked blank.
"Cold potato soup," I said.
He wrinkled his nose.
"Beggars can't be choosers and neither can you." I leaned back and studied him. This seemed to make him preening and nervous at the same time. "What's your name?"
"John Mortimer."
"And what precisely is it you want of me, Mr. Mortimer?"
He leaned forward, I resisted the urge to do so also. Habits die hard.
"I want to know the secret," he said. "I want to know how to be immortal."
"What on earth makes you think I'm immortal?". I asked.
He got a big grin. It was toothy and surprisingly 1| sweet. I almost liked him for that smile. |
"It started out by accident about four years ago," he began. "I was doing some research after reading] an article in the newspaper." He pulled a small, yel- lowed newspaper clipping from his pocket. The headline read: Mystery Buyer Purchases Earldom for $700,000. I glanced over the article. It pretty much gave the dry facts of my acquisition of the Earldom of Arran. Everything except my identity, which I'd had them keep quiet.
"What has this to do with me?" I asked, handin| the clipping back.
"You bought it," he said.
"And what makes you think that?"
"I like computers," he said. "I'm quite good wit them. Every aspect. Programming, hardware-yc name it. It's just this knack I have. Well, for son reason this article caught my attention. So I got c the Web and started trying to find out what I couM about this mystery buyer. But pretty much every-1 thing after you bought the place was under deep| wraps. Oh, I know all about the history of the place| That earldom was created in 1503 by King James IV| 154
The title is linked to the land instead of by blood. All that stuff. History is easy enough to find out.
"But about the new buyer-bloody nothing. That got me curious. Who would want so much privacy and why? So I started contacting other Net surfers in Scotland and eventually I came up with a few who knew all about the island. They were day workers hired to refurbish the house the new owner would be occupying.
"That's when I found out about you. It was quite a stir you being, well, not white. I even got along so well with my Scottish connection that they invited me for a visit. You were off on one of your myste- rious trips. Everyone who worked for you always talked about your trips.
"So I went to visit my friends, and they showed me around the castle and the grounds. You've done a wonderful job keeping up the place. By the way."
I snorted and went back to eating my soup. The waiter came and placed a bowl in front of him. He frowned slightly at it, then took up his spoon and gave the soup a small taste. Apparently it was to his liking, for I got no more of his tale until he had fin- ished the whole bowl.
"I never would have thought cold potato soup could taste so good," he said as he wiped his mouth.
"The things you leam every day," I murmured.
"So, as my hosts were showing me around, I began to notice a couple of things. There was all this °ld stuff around, but not all of it seemed to belong Asre, if you know what I mean. Not the usual rich collections of plates, clocks, and the like. No, your choices were so much more-peculiar.
"But the thing that got me most excited was this picture of you. A painting, I mean. Paul-that's the friend who I was staying with-had gone off to the bathroom and he left me alone in your study. There was a photo of you and some guy on your desk. Then noticed a stack of paintings against one wall. I flipped through them and came across this portrait.
"It was you. But it wasn't. I mean you looked just like you do now, only you were wearing some weird costume. Later, I learned it probably came from the Renaissance. I heard my friend in the hall and put the painting back. But, you know, that painting stayed with me."
"People have portraits done everyday," I said.
"But this one looked like hundreds of years old. The paint was dried and cracked. It felt old."
I rolled my eyes. "Oh, I didn't realize that among your many talents you are also an art historian. Let me see, you're a crack computer wiz, a clever de- frauder of people's trust, and now you're an expert in dating paintings. What other talents do you have up your sleeve?" I asked.
His face flushed red, but he didn't answer me. The waiter came and took our dishes, then presented us with the pate. I broke off a bit of the French bread on the table and proceeded to smear a generous amount of my pate on it. I gestured to him to do likewise.
"Really," I said. "You must try your pate. It's marvelous."
"What is it?" he asked.
"Goose liver, butter, cognac, pepper, and cream, most likely," I said. "Do go on with your tale. It's so unusual to have such a fascinating dinner story."
He poked at the pate as if it would leap off the plate and attack him. Then he put the knife down. No guts, no glory.
"But see, the painting reminded me of another one I'd seen, in some class I'd had in school. So after I went to the library and started looking through books of artists…"
"Was this while you were still in Scotland?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied. "I was staying for a couple of weeks. Paul was glad to get me out of the house ev- ery now and again so he could have his girlfriend over. They were wanting to… well, you know."