“That so?” He smiled. “Please sit down. Drink?”
“No, but I’d be happy to buy you one.”
He laughed. “No, thank you. Two at lunch is my limit.”
He called for the bill, ordered coffee for both of us, and scrawled something on the check.
“I appreciate your talking to me,” I said.
“Only for a few minutes.” Looking at a big Rolex. “Now, why on earth would you want to write a book about Buck?”
“He’s an interesting character. Rise and fall of a major talent.”
“Hmm. Yes. I suppose that would be nicely ironic. But to me he was rather a bore. No offense, but one of those eternal children Americans seem so fond of.”
“Well, hopefully they’ll stay fond and buy my book.”
He smiled again and buttoned his jacket over his thin chest. The suit looked to be one of those highly structured English affairs that costs thousands. His shirt was white with horizontal blue stripes and a high white collar, probably Turnbull&Asser. The conspicuous tie was patterned with artist’s brushes and palettes on black jacquard silk. Simulated dabs of paint supplied the color: scarlet and orange and turquoise and lime-green. “So what would you like to know about the Bug Farm?”
“Pardon?”
“The Bug Farm. That’s what we called the place. It was infested with bugs: beetles, spiders, whatever. And we were all buggy back then. Bugged out—a bit crazy. The old man probably selected us for that. How’s he doing?”
“Alive but ill.”
“Sorry to hear that . . . I suppose. Anyway, there’s not much I can tell you. The bloody farce only lasted one year.”
“I know,” I lied. “But no one’s been able to tell me why.”
“The old man lost interest is why. One year we were his prize pigeons, the next we were out on our arses. Best thing that ever happened to me. I learned about the real world.”
“How were you selected?”
“I was an artist back then—or at least I thought I was.” He looked at his hands, long-fingered, powerful. “Bronze and stone. I wasn’t half terrible actually. Won some awards in England and got a contract with a gallery in New York. The owner heard about the retreat and recommended me to Lowell. In lieu of paying me for two pieces.”
“From sculpture to insurance,” I said. “Must have been an interesting switch.”
He crushed out the cigarillo. “There’s art in everything. Anyway, I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. As I say, it was a foolish year.”
“Do you have any idea how I can locate the other Fellows? Not Joachim Sprentzel, of course. He’s dead.”
He scratched his neck. “Really? Poor chap. How?”
“Suicide. His obituary said he’d been ill for a long time.”
“AIDS?”
“Was he gay?”
“As springtime. Not a bad sort. Kept to himself, writing music all day—no piano or violin, just scratching away at that funny lined paper.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
“Such as?”
“Personality characteristics that might be interesting in a book?”
“Personality,” he said, touching the side of his nose. “Quiet. Withdrawn. A bit gloomy, perhaps. Probably because there were no boys to play with. And, of course, being German. . . . That’s about it. He didn’t socialize much—none of us did. Buck gave us each a little cabin and told us to “wax brilliant.’ Isolation was encouraged. It wasn’t a sociable place.”
“I’ve heard the grand opening party was pretty interesting.”
“So have I—wine, women, song, music, all sorts of fun. One damned bit of ha-ha the whole year, and I was having my appendix out. Bit of bad luck, eh? When I healed up and got back, the old man wouldn’t talk to me. Punishment for not being there. As if I’d defied him by bursting my bloody appendix. A few months later, I was out on my arse.”
Removing the celery stick from his glass, he nibbled the edge.
“Gawd, this takes me back. You really think you’ve got a book in it?”
“I hope so.”
“Send me a copy if it ever gets published.”
“Absolutely. Speaking of getting published, I can’t find anything on the two writing Fellows, Terrence Trafficant and Denton Mellors. Trafficant had a best-seller, then faded from view, and Mellors just seems to have disappeared without publishing anything.”