Sinclair Chartreuse: Part I

I

“Now we’ll all go to the airport together, okay?” My mother’s gaze momentarily met mine before returning to the floral dress she’d been folding. Her inquiry required no response; it was a tyrannical imperative in a democratic guise. She turned and placed the garment in a monstrous suitcase that would approach half her body weight as more of her closet found its way inside. “I’m getting you up at 5:30, your father and I leave at 8:15.”

“Mom, this is ridiculous. I’m 20 years old and cognitively functional. Watching the house is no problem.”

“Well you know how your father feels about that,” she offered. “If it were a few days I’m sure he’d be fine with it, but a month is an awfully long time.” Around Thanksgiving Dad had hit the wall. He had that unfortunate but inevitable realization that time is unidirectional. And while reaching middle-management was probably a life objective of his, it was far from the only one. Ever the opportunist, Dad presented Mom with a velvet box on Christmas morning containing two around-the-world plane tickets and a handwritten note addressed to her boss “excusing” her from work for the month of June. Perhaps the only person more excited than my mother was me, who had thought ahead to the implications. Classes ended in May, and I’d be home. They wouldn’t be. I couldn’t help but smile as I reached for my box. Much to my chagrin, it too contained a ticket. This one was to Brussels, and conveniently bore the same departure date as my parents’. My father beamed thinking he’d shocked the smile right off my face, but in reality Brussels, at this point, had contributed just two things to my existence: god-awful vegetables, and a supreme sense of disappointment. What the hell was in Brussels anyways?

“I don’t even know Uncle Chartreuse. Is he ok with this?” I paused. “Does he even know I’m coming?” My mother looked up from her packing.

“Honey, I talked to him about it last week.” Her tone was matter-of-fact and laced with a slight tinge of condescension. “He’s a very…nice man, and when you see his chateau I’m sure you won’t mind spending some time there.”

“All I know is that before you called him in to babysit, you and dad hadn’t spoken to him for like 15 years. He’s your brother, there’s got to be a reason for that.” My mother was becoming increasingly agitated.

“He’s my half-brother, dear, from Grammy’s first husband. And I don’t know. He just, he has a way about him. You’ll see. Now here, go give this to your father. He forgot it.” Her outstretched hand contained a worn yellow toothbrush, and dispatching me on such a trivial errand meant she was finished with our conversation. My parents had done nothing for me in scheduling this trip though, and I’d do nothing for them to assist in its execution. Failing to take the toothbrush, I turned and left.

That night I had a dream about Uncle Chartreuse. He sat at the head of a mahogany table and, though I never looked behind me, I knew it extended in perpetuity. There was no décor, just incessant and infinitely deep blackness threatening his space. He was a portly gentleman, perhaps in his mid-50s, dressed in a brown sweater with a slightly mismatched plaid jacket. His face was sweaty, swollen, and highly compact, bearing more resemblance to pig than man. His comb-over hairstyle failed miserably to conceal his balding head. On the table in front of him were a heaping serving of Brussels sprouts, a tankard of ale, and a large roasted turkey still marinating in its service tray. Suddenly, he slammed his fists onto the table, lunged for a turkey leg, and tore it from the rest of the creature with primal ferocity. Rending flesh from bone, he ate in an undignified, disgusting manner. Juice dribbled down his chin onto the napkin stuffed into his collar. The turkey haunch vacated his mouth intermittently in favor of the ale tankard. He was consumed with consumption. For some reason, I was compelled to speak. “Uhh, Uncle Chartreuse…Hi, I’m Chris Davis, your nephew.” He lowered the turkey leg to table height, resting his wrist on its edge, and leaned forward slightly. Squinting his eyes, he opened his mouth slightly to reveal a wad of turkey cud.

“Eh?”

“I’m…I’m Chris, your nephew…from Chicago. Did my father tell you I was coming?” He glared at me, looking thoroughly confused. After a brief pause, he leaned back, released a thunderous belch, and returned to his meal.

I awoke thoroughly unsettled and went through the motions of my morning routine on autopilot. All available cognitive processing ability contemplated the intricacies of my dream. The taxi ride to the airport, however, provided a brief distraction. In observing social dynamics, it’s often obvious what both parties wish to accomplish. But why make things easy?

“Where you go?” The cab driver spoke with a heavy middle-eastern accent and adjusted himself, sinking deeper into his heavily-worn chair. A youthful man of dark complexion, his smile was as unshakeable as his enthusiasm. His ID badge hung with a cluster of other ornaments from the rear-view mirror. It read “Hi, my name is MAHMOUD,” in large block letters.

“O’Hare, international departures terminal please,” my father replied. He turned to my mother, “Hon, did you grab the passports off the kitchen counter?”

“You make nice trip?” Mahmoud’s English was less than perfect.

“Yeah, it’s going to be great,” replied Dad tersely. “Hon, the passports…”

“I’m not su—“

“Where you go?”

“Just some countries! Well, you better check the bag—“

“Which countries you go?”

Enter me. “Yeah, Dad, where all are you going again? England, Spain, Russia, Jordan…” He jerked around from the front seat and whipped his finger toward me, but the damage was done.

“Ahhhh, my friends, you see Jordan!” Mahmoud rested his hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Jordan my country!”

“Fantastic, I’m truly happy for you sir. Hon, any luck with—“

“You see Petra! Amman? How long you stay?”

“Oh, they’ve got a great itinerary, right dad? How long are you staying again? Was it three days or four? Mahmoud, what’s Jordan like?”

“Yes! Yes! I play for you music, great music!” He slid a cassette into the dash and cranked a knob on the player. A cacophonous arrangement of sitars, horns, and wailing voices blared from the speakers. Mahmoud bobbed his head in time and sang along as the cab barreled down the freeway. I slipped on my noise-canceling headphones; Dad touched his palms to his face and shook his head.

When we reached the airport, Mahmoud leapt out of the car and raced around it to open my mother’s door. After helping Dad with the luggage, he bowed deeply and accepted a $5 tip. “Tell Jordan I say ‘hi.’” He waved in a horribly exaggerated motion and sped off.

Inside the terminal, my father scanned the departures board for the 8:15 to Heathrow. My flight wasn’t until 4:30 p.m., but apparently 8 hours of my time weren’t worth the $30 a separate taxi would have required. “It’s H13, Linda. Oh good Lord, look at the line for security…here, we better get moving.” In an utterly dehumanizing process, we entered a labyrinthine assortment of switchbacks and turnstiles and, like cattle to the slaughterhouse, awaited our turn at the front of the line. As we inched ever closer, I observed the security personnel to amuse myself. A battalion of wrinkled uniforms and empty eyes, the entire operation churned along at a pace slightly slower than leisurely. As we were clearing the checkpoint, I brought up my observation.

“Do you think it’s in everyone’s best interest to have a team of highly unmotivated, uneducated, hourly government workers ensuring the safety of our aviation industry?”

My parents had very different reactions. My father scrunched his face in a “did he really just say that?” expression. Mom seemed more dismissive. “Honey, that’s not nice to say, I’m sure they’re very competent individuals.” My mother slipped her flats back on and began routing her belt through its series of loops. An attendant lackadaisically pushed my tray of belongings toward me as it exited the x-ray machine. Examining its contents, I noticed my old Swiss army knife amongst the change, pens, and pocket lint.

“I wish I shared your optimism,” I muttered. Nobody heard.

My parents walked briskly through the network of concourses to find boarding to Heathrow already in progress. My mother turned to me. “Chris, you be safe now. Email us as soon as you get there to let us know you’re ok. Your uncle should be waiting for you at the airport but you have his phone number just in case, right?”

“Mom, yes, I have it.”

“And don’t take any wooden nickels!” My father smiled. I hated that expression.

“Just so we’re clear, you both know that as much as I’m looking forward to spending a month in a foreign country with a man I’ve never met, I’m willing to just take one for the team and stay home, right? And you both know it’s not too late to cancel my ticket and get me a cab out of here…” My father sighed.

“Son, how much money do you have on you?” Excellent, perhaps I’d at least raised enough hell to receive a “shut up” bribe. I pulled out my wallet and sifted through its contents.

“I’ve got three bucks.”

“Good,” my father said. “Not enough to get home.” That set-spike combination had won him the match. “Oh, one more thing,” he started. “Tell Brussels I say ‘hi!’” My mother giggled.

“Ohhhh God…” was all I could muster. My parents started toward the jet-way.

“Bye honey, I love you. Be safe!” She opened her arms.

“Try to have some fun, kid.” He stuck out his hand. I stood and watched momentarily as they showed their passports to the gate attendant and continued on. As they entered the jet-way side-by-side, my dad furtively reached behind him and grabbed my mother’s butt. She recoiled and slapped him on the shoulder. He pretended like he hadn’t done anything.

“Parental guidance suggested,” I muttered.

My gate was a mere 5 minute walk from theirs, and after reaching it I had 7 hours and 55 minutes to kill before my flight departed. My mind wandered. I wished I could edit my life like they do in reality TV shows. Some mood-appropriate track would accompany a video montage. I’d be leaning against the glass admiring the tarmac pensively in one frame, sprawled uncomfortably across 3 chairs in another, skeptically opening the brown-bag lunch my mother packed in the next. Even better, the flight itself could be reduced to two brief shots: one of my plane leaving the runway and another of it touching down. The next 18 hours could be easily and effectively condensed into 20 seconds. I looked at my watch-- 1 minute down, 474 to go.

I hate waiting. Life offers a finite amount of time, and catering to another person’s schedule seems like a terrible way to spend it. I leafed through the issue of Car & Driver I’d brought, tried to digest some of Guns, Germs, and Steel (I’ll be honest, I read some books just to be seen reading them…that’s one of them), and ran the battery dead on my laptop playing Spider Solitaire. Finally, Delta flight 417, nonstop service from Chicago O’Hare to Brussels National, began boarding. I’d never been on a wide-bodied jet before, and seeing the middle row of seats five across was a little startling. Flight attendants in perfectly pressed uniforms beamed smiles from their posts along the cabin, individually acknowledging passengers as they continued down the aisle to their seats. I wondered if there was any true joy behind their corporate-mandated pearly grins. I decided to find out.

“Sizeable plane,” I said. “It’s surprising this thing can get off the ground.”

“Oh this is just a 777,” responded the attendant. “It only seats 305. As a younger man, I worked on a 747 that held 430. Now that was a ‘sizeable plane.’ And don’t worry, she’s got plenty of get up and go.” The sentence was surprisingly sincere and indicated a sense of interest. Maybe work in the airline industry is less soul-crushing than I’d anticipated.

My seat was on the aisle in the middle section. I stowed my backpack and collapsed into the seat, delighted that my below average height afforded above average leg room. The other occupants of my row trickled in one by one, each apologizing as I stood up and stepped into the aisle to allow them entrance. The headphones went on, the iPod came out, and the world slipped away—briefly. I felt a tap on my arm.

“Sir…Sir. Please turn off your electronic device in preparation for take-off.” A middle-aged female flight attendant was leaning down and looking at me, a saccharine smile all too close to my face. In contrast to her colleague, her tone was apathetic and distant. It sought compliance, social intercourse be damned.

“Oh, sure, yeah. It’s off.” She continued up the aisle before I’d finished. I removed my headphones and tossed them in my lap. Desperate for stimulation, I pulled the Sky Mall magazine from my seat pocket and perused the overpriced, overhyped merchandise it offered. “The Big Foot Garden Yeti Sculpture” and “The Alien Gnome Bandits” were 2 of my first discoveries. Why is every item in the magazine listed in the definitive? I half expected to see “The Straw” and “The Toilet Paper” featured next. I understand that the definitive implies uniqueness, and uniqueness is good, but if someone offered you a chunk of feces and it were the only one in the world, would you take it? I still wouldn’t. Admittedly, though, The Alien Gnome Bandits was an endearing item. It was a sculpture of two small metallic creatures with circular bodies, large teeth, and long legs. In stride, they had a red garden gnome held above their heads and were working together to cart it away. I’m sure all the inventions and items featured in the magazine are consignments from the original patent holders, and I really wanted to meet the inventor of the gnome bandits. Anyone willing to hedge their financial future on the success of a humorous but purposeless decoration has to have a pretty unique life perspective.

The click of the PA-system interrupted my reverie. “Uhhh, good evening ladies and gentlemen, this is uhhhh your captain. On behalf of myself, Delta airlines, and the crew, we welcome you aboard this Boeing 777 with nonstop service to Brussels, flight time 10 hours and uhhh 14 minutes. Uhhh, conditions are looking pretty good at the moment, clear skies and calm winds. We’ll be pushing back momentarily, and we’re uhhhh currently number 6 in line. Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff.” Another click signaled the end of his transmission.

My headphones reassumed their rightful position atop my head, and I whipped out my iPod once more. Yes, I know all electronic devices are prohibited until the plane clears 10,000 feet, but with the flight attendants in their jump seats, nobody would be policing my decision to endanger the lives of the other 304 passengers on board. Seeking a musical diversion, I ran my finger round and round the click-wheel until the selection bar highlighted Sigur Ros and pressed play. I’m an unrepentant indie music snob, and they’re firmly within the genre (half of their vocals, for example, are in Icelandic and the other half unintelligible). Their immediately recognizable sound is attributable to lead vocalist Jonsi Birgisson’s swooping falsetto which, admittedly, sounds ridiculous on first listen. But you don’t listen to the music, you get lost in its emotions. You become a pilgrim traversing an otherworldly sonic landscape of their design. Of course, most of my friends don’t share my affinity and give me hell for listening to them: “Hey Chrissy, maybe you could date the lead singer” (I’m not gay, but Jonsi is), “I hope you enjoy whale music, you’ll be dating a few,” etc. In return, I give them hell for fist pumping to the Jonas Brothers. It’s a palatable equilibrium.

The same female flight attendant strolled down our aisle with a pen and piece of paper, presumably taking dinner orders. Upon further inspection, her makeup was doing a fantastic job of concealing the worn nature of her features. Her eyes appeared empty. A trademark sign of age, the triple-line formation of crow’s feet extended from her orbital sockets. The effect was muted, however, by the volume of foundation that filled the cracks. Nevertheless, her crumbling façade of personability was unbearable, and I felt she deserved some sort of recourse for so poorly hiding her displeasure with the world. Walking backwards down the aisle, she came to me.

“For you? Chicken or Beef?”

“Whichever more closely resembles what you’re billing it as,” I replied sarcastically. She looked like I had punched her in the face. Her lips curled downward, a mixture of a frown and sheer befuddlement. She ticked off one of the columns and, without further acknowledging me, continued down the aisle. Fifteen minutes later, the food trolley rumbled up to the front of the economy section as custom fitted trays (just small enough to fit on the tray tables, mind you) were issued to passengers. It was rations, nothing more. I waited patiently and sat expressionless as my food arrived with an unceremonious thud.

“Yum, kibble!” The stewardess shook her head and continued on. I ate quickly, the food surprisingly good. It was my first experience with an actual airline meal. The domestic legs I’d logged previously offered only pretzels and a coke, but this was my first intercontinental excursion. As I was finishing off my square of Tiramisu, the cabin lights were dimmed and the seasoned travelers began to crack open their packages of blankets and blindfolds. I did the same and, making a new playlist selection and reclining my seat the maximum 15 degrees, drifted off to sleep.

I felt the tapping again. This time it was on my shoulder. I opened my eyes to discover the stewardess leaning over me. Though I had my headphones on, I perfectly understood what she was saying: “Sir, please stow your electronics device in preparation for landing.” She pointed to my iPod. I had had about enough of this woman. I tapped one ear of my headphones and shook my head in the classic “sorry, I can’t hear you” sequence of gesticulations. “SIR, your iPod, please switch it off.” I repeated the gesture. She pressed her lips together. In a sudden motion, she grabbed the headphones by their connecting bar, jerked them off my head, and thrust them into my lap. “Turn it off!” she repeated and stormed back down the aisle. I’d file a report against her. I’d personally see to it that that wretched wench was expunged from Delta’s payroll. It would be doing her a favor really, she could pursue a position she’d find more enjoyable. As I considered the myriad ways she’d grow to regret crossing me, there was a jostling bump as rubber met road. We slowed to a halt and taxied to the gate without incident. As usual, the “fasten seat belt” sign disappeared with a “bing” as the aircraft came to a complete stop, and 300 weary, cramped passengers stood to collect their belongings from the overhead compartments. The line to disembark slowly inched forward, and as I passed the lavatories, I recognized a voice coming from within.

“I’m sorry to call you again Diane, but we just landed and I wanted to check in. Has there been any sign of him? No, I know, it’s just…he’s 17 years old. God knows what could have happened to him. I mean we have squabbles all the time, I’m his mother, but he’s never just left before. Have you called the Bakers, did he try to come over there? I’m sure they are doing everything they can, but I just filed the report yesterday and it can’t hurt to have an extra person looking. Yeah but you just can’t understand, Diane, you just can’t imagine…” A whimper gave way to muffled sobs. I continued toward the front of the plane and addressed the steward I saw on my way in.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Your colleague, the woman, what’s her name.” The man looked behind him toward the lavatory.

“That’s Jane Morris. I’m sorry if Ms. Morris was a bit out of sorts today, but I hope you enjoyed the flight nonetheless. Have a nice day, sir.” He nodded his head slightly.

“You too,” I responded. I’d report that woman to Delta. I’d tell them how she bore a smile despite life’s unforeseeable externalities and had a knack for dealing with difficult passengers in a civilized manner. I’d tell them I’d be privileged to receive her service again in the future. It was my somewhat unusual equivalent of an apology, but I certainly owed her that. The baggage claim belt swirled around like the nebulous thoughts in my head as I looked through it, not at it. It was foolish to make overarching assumptions about a person’s demeanor based off of a few isolated indicators. Personalities are too multidimensional and stratified to be immediately categorized, and I should have known that. I saw my black, hard-plastic suitcase snaking around the conveyor belt but made no effort to retrieve it. Mathematicians always account for variables and outliers in their equations. Scientists always have a control in their experiments. I should be no different. I sighed and walked over to my piece of baggage, taking care to bend at the knees when lifting it. The weight limit was 50 pounds, and I certainly took advantage of every bit of that (maybe even a little more, but the baggage clerk kindly looked the other way). Assuming I had nothing to declare, I bypassed customs and exited the large double-doors into the airport’s unsecured area. I scanned the crowd. My uncle was here somewhere, and though I had no idea what to expect, I had to find him.

I took a moment to people-watch as I stepped out of customs. A young woman I recognized from my flight walked just in front of me, her vibrant pink sweater matching the vivacity of her gait. A man in a knee-length wool peacoat snuck up behind her furtively, a bouquet of roses held behind his back. After briefly stalking his prey, he tapped the girl on the shoulder. She whirled around, looked up, and recognized her lover. With a high-pitched squeal, she thrust her arms around his neck and they locked in a swaying embrace. Elsewhere, a young Asian man approached a (presumably Belgian) family. The mother and father stood behind a small boy who held a sign reading “Toshi Masumara” accompanied by some characters. The young man reached down and shook the boy’s hand, followed by the parents’. To my surprise, they began conversing in French. After a short, highly animated conversation, the father motioned toward the exit sign, took charge of the young man’s suitcase, and began wheeling it in the indicated direction. I really enjoy the arrivals area. With the exception of business travelers methodically tending to their obligations, it’s a place filled with people taking delight in one another. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no hippie, but I do believe emotions and moods are contagious, and there’s a palpable sense of joy in meetings, reacquaintances, and homecomings.

At first glance, I saw nobody who could have passed for my Uncle. Shortly thereafter, however, I spotted a gentleman holding a sign bearing my last name. Perhaps in his early 30s, his taught skin would be considered a dark olive. In fact, darkness could be considered a motif for all of his features. His eyebrows were thick and unkempt, bearing a nearly sinister v-like pointiness. Above them was a scar tracing the left side of his supra-orbital ridge, below them were intensely shining eyes. His jet black, straight hair had seen plenty of product and was slicked back beneath a trademark chauffer’s cap. He wore an equally dark tailored suit with matching tie, contrasted with a white dress shirt and impeccably folded pocket kerchief. As I approached, he took note and flashed a smile that affected only the lower half of his countenance. His incisors and canines, I noticed, were almost unnaturally pointed. Apparently, my uncle had pawned off the responsibility of fetching me on a private service. He was either incredibly important, incredibly impersonal, or both.

“Chris Davis, that’s me,” I said, pointing to the sign.

“Ah, Chris, so nice to meet you.” He had flipped the r in my name as a function of his accent. I couldn’t immediately make out the origin.

“I am Steffen, Mr. Chartreuse’s attendant.” My uncle had a butler?

“Huh, ok. Where you from Steffen?”

“I come from Romania, but I work for Mr. Chartreuse six years now.” I could see Stefan’s English was slightly lacking as well, and flipping that r made my uncle sound like “Shah-tluce.” I couldn’t decide how I felt about it.

“I take your bag.” I relinquished the handle of my suitcase and followed him toward the panel of glass doors leading out. He stopped abruptly at the curb. “You wait, I go get the car.”

I stood as he walked briskly across the lanes of passing Peugeots and Citroens in the direction of the parking lot. My uncle had a butler. Was that customary for here? My mother also mentioned a chateau which, being a French word, implied wealth and prominence. However, lacking any real knowledge of Belgian culture, I had simply assumed this delineated a house rather than an apartment. Seeing Stefan in his expensive suit, however, made me rethink that assumption. And what came around the block roughly two minutes later would dash it forever.

I’m a car person. I subscribe to the magazines, I drool over mankind’s latest automotive excesses (take the Bugatti Veyron’s 987 horsepower, quadruple turbocharged 16-cylinder engine, for example), and I appreciate the stylistic intentions of some of the more classic designs. As I waited, a superbly restored white-on-black 1937 Jaguar SS100 approached, gleaming in the summer sun. As it grew closer, I could see Stefan at the helm, guiding its direction with his gloved hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel. The car came to a stop in front of me, and Steffen blasted the horn with a loud, trademark “AOOOGAH.” He exited and came round to the curb, oblivious to my flabbergasted expression. Saying nothing, he grabbed my bag and somehow found room for it in the car’s miniscule trunk. Finally, with an unsettling grin, he returned to the curb and opened the passenger’s side door to the 2-seat cockpit.

“Where did you get this car?” I asked finally.

“Boxing match.”

“Excuse me?”

“De scar. I get it in a boxing match.” He collected his thoughts. “How do you say it? You should see the other guy! Ah ah ah.” His laugh was everything I’d imagine from a Romanian, three stereotypical staccato bursts. I chuckled politely.

“No, the car, it’s a very nice car,” I tried again.

“No, it’s Jaguar. No NASCAR here, American!” It was hopeless.

As we continued along Belgium’s systems of freeways, leaving the airport further and further behind, I became aware that my uncle lived quite far from the city proper. Unable to read Dutch or French, I couldn’t discern the direction we were heading. Come to think of it, unable to interpret metrics, I couldn’t discern how far we’d gone or how quickly. Kilometers and, of course, kilometers per hour were all useless measures without some sort of sense of scale. I didn’t know how 100 kph compared to highway speeds posted in the States, but it seemed to be Steffen’s preferred rate of speed. I completely ruled out calculating fuel efficiency. It would be presented in kilometers per liter, which I had no hope of converting into something meaningful.

Eventually, Stefan veered right and we left the freeway corridor in favor of service roads. We rumbled through undulating terrain as cottages and farmland transitioned from windshield to rear-view mirror. There was an unmistakable sense of antiquity. I’d wager some of the cottages had been around since the 1600s, and I wondered if their original builders rested in the shade of the same trees whizzing by my windowpane. After roughly a half-hour, we rounded a hard, blind curve. A steep cliff, perhaps 15 feet high, hugged the right-hand shoulder of the road, obscuring all scenery in that direction. We seemed to be headed around a mountain, or at least a very large hill. Steffen eased off the gas, eventually applying the brake as we decelerated. He cut a hard right into an asphalt entryway carved out of the rock face and came to a stop. It was large enough for a car, but practically invisible due to the severity of the curve. You’d simply have to know it was there to avoid missing it. In fact, it would appear to any car following you that you were turning directly into the rock wall. It was privacy by perspective, a very creative illusion. I liked it.

We were just inside the entrance of a man-made cave. The driveway (if that’s what it was) continued on through the rock, but was blocked by a black iron-wrought portcullis in the down position. Without lifting it, there was just enough space for the car’s rear bumper to sit flush with the cave’s exit. Steffen rolled down his window and typed a code into a numerical keypad embedded in the rock. As he pulled his hand away, a small LED indicator on the top of the keypad switched from red to green with a subtle beep. There came a whirring, the unmistakable sound of a mechanism drawing power and coming to life. The portcullis slowly rose, ascending into the cavern ceiling over a period of around twenty seconds. Steffen slowly inched the car past the portcullis, again coming to a stop just on the other side. He reached out his hand again and typed the code into a second keypad. With a rumble, the portcullis descended back to its original, secure position. I was too awed to carefully organize my thoughts before speaking.

“This…this is some serious shit you’ve got going on here.” He looked confused, but I wouldn’t bother explaining. I continued, “I mean what is it my uncle does? The cave is pretty sweet, I’ll admit, but who has that? Who needs that? Who in the world needs an effing portcullis? I’m a simple man, Stefan. Give me a cookie-cutter home in the suburbs with a white picket fence, a dog and a cat, a ford and a dodge, and 2.4 kids. I’ll make do. But this…this is...” I shook my head. My words were gone, leaving only awkward silence in their place.

“You like the garage door?” Stefan asked, motioning behind him with his thumb. I doubt he’d digested a word of what I’d just said, and it was probably better that way. I sighed.

“Yes, yes it’s very nice.” The lower half of his face smiled, again revealing those unsettling fangs. He gave the car a bit of gas and it rumbled, quite noisily thanks to the echo, further down the tunnel. Sunlight gave way to headlight as we descended further into the cave. After a couple minutes, the lights failed to reflect off the narrow walls, implying we were about to reach an open expanse. As we entered a large room, motion-activated halogen lights flickered on and bathed the area in an artificial but bright glow. It was a garage, a very large, underground garage. Concrete had been poured to form the floor and back wall of the room (which was actually 2 stories), but the rest remained unfinished. To my right, four cars were nuzzled up against the rock. Directly ahead of me, 5 more were parked side-by-side with their noses against a concrete outcropping. A staircase had been installed just to their left and, making a right when finished climbing, you could walk atop the outcropping to an elevator door. All of the cars were covered. The lower halves of the wheels were the only exposed area, and the only indication that what was underneath was real. I had a Keanu Reeves moment.

“Whoa…”

I’d have to have a little chat with my uncle about what all was underneath these sheets, and which of them I could drive. I’d had enough exposition though, I was ready to meet the man. Steffen pulled the jaguar to the left in front of the staircase. He opened the driver’s side door and walked back to the trunk, where we wrestled my suitcase from its depths. I too got out and, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, surveyed my surroundings. What a feat of construction. This must have cost an absolute fortune. I ran over to the steps and ascended them two at a time. Standing on the outcropping, I looked out over the room and faced the tunnel from which we’d entered. Steffen drug my bag up the steps one at a time. Finally reaching the landing, he wheeled it over to the elevator door and pressed the button. Fifteen seconds later, a capsule descended from the ceiling and we boarded. There was only one button on the elevator to serve two stops. The elevator was intelligent enough to reason that you wanted to be wherever you weren’t. The walls were entirely fogged glass, reducing the passenger’s view to a blurry visage. With a slight shudder, we rose off the ground and entered a vertical track cut through the rock. The surroundings were dark, but a pinpoint of light through the ceiling grew ever larger. The ride took in total less than a minute, and as the elevator reached its climax, the scene changed dramatically. The walls were bathed in light but the surroundings indiscernible. With a ding, the doors opened and the scene suddenly became clear. It was unbelievable. The lift rose directly into the center of an incredibly large, opulent living room. I’d taken an art history class that spring semester, and I knew enough to identify the décor as Rococo.

Facing us, a man sat in a chaise lounge about ten feet away. He was of slender build and sported a charcoal grey suit. His face was narrow and oblong, his features so chiseled that the cracks forming across his forehead and around his eyes seemed inevitable byproducts. His hair had retained its color, and was fashioned neatly atop his head. His eyes beamed with kindness and were accentuated by a thick moustache that added a disarming element to his immediate charm. I’d place his age at around 60, but there was an energetic youthfulness about him that made it seem much lower. He sat upright in a majestic pose with his hands folded neatly in his lap, his left leg resting by the ankle atop his right. The elevator was 2 steps below the level of the room, and his superior positioning rendered him a quasi-deific figure looming above us. In one fluid motion, he uncrossed his legs and, leveraging his hands on the edge of the lounge, rose. He descended two marble steps with effortlessly confident strides and continued towards us. His lips curled outward in a beaming smile, and the gleaming whiteness of his teeth contrasted his dark features beautifully. Though slightly beyond his prime, the twilight of his years shone upon him flatteringly. He extended his hand while still a full three steps from me and, upon meeting my grip, grasped it firmly from behind with the other hand. He had me by 4 inches easily but bent over slightly to mirror my stature.

“Sinclair Chartreuse dear boy, delighted to meet you!” He returned to an upright position. Somehow his British accent had emphasized each of his name’s 4 syllables. I didn’t think that was possible.

“Hi, Chris Davis, nice to meet you,” I replied.

“Nice, indeed. He motioned in front of him to Stefan, who stood behind me. “I trust everything went swimmingly at the airport.” He surveyed both of us.

“We managed to stay afloat,” I answered.

He half snorted, half scoffed, half laughed. “What wit! Did you see that Steffen?!” Steffen nodded vehemently. I was certain he hadn’t understood, but Uncle Chartreuse seemed to believe he had. He wagged his finger at me. “You’ve got your mother’s sense of humor, that much is certain!” My mother had a sense of humor? Who knew? “Steffen will take your bag to your room, come into the kitchen and get yourself some food. I know those airlines’ concept of hospitality…I ate better in prison!”

“Uhm, you were in prison, Uncle Chartreuse?” He looked at me blankly.

“It’s just an expression, lad.” But that expression illustrated how pathetically little I knew about this man. He rotated on the balls of his feet and headed across the alabaster floors through a large archway. Apparently, we’d entered the kitchen. It was an open expanse centered around a serving island with an assortment of gleaming pots and pans hanging above it. It was accentuated by black granite countertops all around. Uncle Chartreuse rooted through the refrigerator, eventually removing a silver platter adorned with an assortment of cheese and crackers. “Oho! This should do nicely, Steffen’s finest work.” He motioned towards a polished wood table that sat by a large bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a charming breakfast nook. He delicately placed the tray in the middle and sat down at one of the four chairs. He flicked a cloth napkin to remove it from its origami-like folding pattern and placed it in his lap. I sat in the chair directly across from him.

“So, how exactly are you related to my mother?” Uncle Chartreuse had just stuffed a large cracker in his mouth and indicated that he’d need a moment.

“Brilliant question,” he said finally. “Your mother’s mother, my mother, had two husbands. The first was a Frenchman, Victor Chartreuse, a struggling painter living in London. Your grandmother was a visiting student who stumbled into his gallery by chance and the rest, they say, is history. But their marriage was far from a pretty picture, I daresay it painted Victor in a very unflattering light.” He guffawed at his own wordplay. “Mother left him ten years later and moved back to the states, where she met your mother’s father, Richard Jeck.” That was my granddad, Jeck being my mother’s maiden name.

“Intriguing,” I said. “In a classically dysfunctional way, of course. So what happened then? How did you and my mother split up?”

“I had dual citizenship,” replied Uncle Chartreuse. “University in Britain was practically free compared to your American standards, so I returned there. I began work shortly thereafter in Europe. Relationships are like seeds, my boy, they require a specific set of circumstances to grow and flourish. An ocean’s worth of salt water washed ours away.” He looked out the window. “But then your mother met that Davis fellow and, I guess you could say she became deJECKted.” He snorted again and slapped his knee. I groaned.

“That was really horrible.”

“Don’t tell me you object to my sense of humour.”

“It’s facile. Puns are futile attempts at hilarity by the unintelligent”

“Allow me to reject your conjecture.”

I slapped my hands on the table. “So help me god, if you pun one more time…”

There was a long pause. He opened his mouth and sucked in some air, holding it in briefly.

“I’m just trying to inject some humor here,” he spit forth.

“OH GOD. Am I really stuck here with you for the next month?”

“Indeed.” He shoved another cracker in his mouth and chewed jovially. “And I’m afraid there’s no way to eject yourself from it.”

“Is that it? Done? Are you—“

“Do you know what that was, my boy?” He leaned in very closely. “An interjection.” I stared at him blankly and blinked my eyes.

“How delightful,” he continued. “I got through even more than I’d originally projected.” He grinned. I banged my forehead on the table.

“Exject, Extraject, superject, supraject, hydroject, exoject, endoject, lithoject…hyperject.” I paused. “Did I miss anything? I don’t want any more prefixes or suffixes serving as fodder for your god-awful witticisms.”

He scoffed. “Doesn’t every protagonist deserve antagonizing?”

“Excise the first syllable from that last word and you’ve adequately described what just happened.”

“And excise the first syllable from the word before that and you’ve adequately described what’s about to happen.”
At that moment, Steffen entered the nook bearing a silver service tray and his trademark smile. His black driving gloves had been replaced white cotton ones. On the tray were two beverages with celery stalks jutting out.

“Steffen’s favorite,” Uncle Chartreuse beamed. “The Bloody Mary. And he makes a damn fine one, too!”

“I bet he does,” I said, looking not at the drinks but at Steffen’s unusually shaped teeth. He set the drinks down in front of us. Uncle Chartreuse raised his glass and took a sip. The momentary silence allowed me to look around and bask in my surroundings. Rococo is stylistically overwhelming, and the fixtures, cornices, walls, and furnishings all reeked of opulence. The alabaster floors only amplified the effect. An impressionistic painting hung on the wall directly across from me. It depicted Uncle Chartreuse in large, very visible brushstrokes. A cigarette between his fingers, he was sporting what could have been the same suit he was currently wearing. An unseen light source shone dimly on his face, but failed in its effort to stave off the darkness surrounding him. The painting depicted him from the thighs up, but his figure faded into shapelessness at about elbow height.

“That’s an interesting way to depict yourself,” I said, pointing in front of me to the painting. Uncle Chartreuse spun around in his chair to have a look.

“Certainly that’s what he must have been thinking,” he replied.

“The artist, you mean?”

“Indeed.”

“Did you like it? When he was finished, of course.”

“Enough to buy it.”

“True. How old were you then?”

“Oh, I suppose that was nearly 30 years ago now.”
“Huh. Did you ask for it to be in an impressionistic style?”

Uncle Chartreuse looked puzzled. “I don’t think it comes any other way.” I didn’t quite understand. Maybe it had something to do with the artist.

“Well, who painted it?”

“Edvard Munch.” My head recoiled in shock.

“What? You had Edvard Munch paint you?” It was a sudden, horribly underthought question. Munch died before Uncle Chartreuse was born.

“I think he found himself a more apt model,” he chuckled. “It’s called Self Portrait with Burning Cigarette, an 1895 piece if I recall correctly.” I felt foolish, but the physical resemblance was absolute.

“Wow, you two look very similar. Is it original?”

“Of course not, artists have been doing portraits for thousands of years.”

“No, but I mean, is it a 1 of 1? Are there any duplicates?” Uncle Chartreuse shook his head.

“I normally loan it out to the National Gallery in Oslo, but I had a bit of a cigarette craving.” He smiled.

“Where did you get it? We were taught that Munch bequeathed all of his works to the city of Oslo when he died.” Uncle Chartreuse took a long sip of his Bloody Mary.

“Car boot sale.” I had no idea what that was, but didn’t bother to ask. I simply nodded slowly. A large question had been forming in my mind, an inappropriate question to be sure, but my curiosity rendered it a nuclear bomb in my throat. The launch sequence had been initiated, and I hoped what radiated from my mouth wouldn’t be so explosive as to create fission in our relationship.

“Alright, there’s no good way to ask this so I’m just going to throw it out there. Everything you have, everything about your lifestyle is dripping with wealth. You have to have a ton of money. Where did it all come from?”