AN: This is a collaboration with the lovely and very patient Kylara. She came to me with a fabulous idea for a story, and placed it in my hands…and this is the beginning of what she got back!
From “Sonata”:
The BetBETH: So, what’s your connection to Hearst? Did you attend the college?
JOSEF: No, no. I founded it. Lost a bet with William Randolph.
Chapter 1
I.
Los Angeles, 2010
Looking around the room, Josef smiled in satisfaction. Preparations were almost complete, for indulgence in this most private of his pleasures. The heavy blackout drapes were drawn, and the doors of the room not just shut, but locked and re-locked. Two things were left. Moving quickly, he threw the manual bolt on his hidden escape hatch. Given the other precautions, it was unlikely to be needed this evening, but one never knew for sure. And after all, wasn’t that precisely why the concealed passage existed in the first place?
Satisfied at last that the room was secure, he hit the final buttons, putting in a code that was written only in the copies of his final instructions sealed in the vaults of several vampire law firms worldwide.
He kept thinking that the shock of the beauty of it would fade over time, that another idol, more modern, would replace it in his eyes. But he knew, as the mechanics and electronics of the protective housing raised it up from the bedrock below the house, that that would never happen. That the sight of the painting, close enough to touch and supremely, privately, his, would trigger again the miracle of awe.
Sometimes he thought he should have shared the secret with Willie, but he knew that he was thinking of the boy he’d known so long ago, not the man that boy had become, the one who had gained so much, and lost so much more along the way. The man he’d spent a small fortune to keep this very secret from, when he knew so many of Josef’s other secrets. He’d almost decided to let the knowledge out, anyway, even if he’d come to regard Willie with all the caution, the courtesy owed from one dangerous predator to another. But the years slipped by as he vacillated, then the decades, and he’d been busy with other concerns in 1952, when the news came from San Simeon that the king was dead. And Willie, who might have been delighted to know this secret, or outraged at it, no longer cared about his own secrets, let alone those of Josef Kostan.
For now, as the fireproof, bombproof, titanium case opened, and the soft, indirect lights silently came on, all other thought was banished. Josef stared, speechless once more, at the painting that, for almost a century, he alone had seen.
II.
Rome, January, 1874
Even in winter, the late afternoon Roman sun was heavy, honey gold, streaming light in long bars across the marble floors of the Villa Borghese. Phoebe Apperson Hearst was too distracted to notice or appreciate it, however, as she hurried through the gallery. She paid no attention, either, to the priceless works of art along her way. Another day, with Willie at her side, she’d stop to admire, to read to him from the little guidebook she’d purchased. Right now, her ten-year-old son had vanished, and although he was probably safe in the confines of the museum, absorbed in the glories of the art that had recently caught his attention, it wasn’t a sure thing, and she was nervous. All these foreigners, and the French she’d made him learn wouldn’t be much help here. Maybe she should have had him study Italian, instead, she thought distractedly. No, of course not. French would be far more use to him in the long run. Cultivated people might appreciate Italian art, and music, but they spoke, and read, French. German also, perhaps. But not Italian.
Where could Willie be? Mrs. Hearst blushed at some of the glimpses she caught. No matter if sculpted by Bernini, or painted by Correggio, these bared breasts and succulent thighs were hardly fit subjects for a ten-year-old boy. So far, he had not started asking indelicate questions, but it was bound to come soon. Her own frontier girlhood had not left her ill-equipped to explain the workings of Nature, but somehow the idea of discussing such matters with her precocious son left her greatly disquieted. That was a father’s job.
She peered into one room after another. Titian, Raphael, heaven save us, Rubens. The Bernini sculpture of the infant Zeus with the goat Amalthea. At least that one was unobjectionable.
Wait, was that Willie? Sighing with relief, she saw her boy standing, deep in conversation with a young man, next to the lustrous marble of a reclining semi-nude.
“It’s the Emperor Napoleon’s sister,” Willie was saying, his boyish soprano clearly audible from across the room. Her boy, looked like a tow-headed cherub, although Phoebe was under no illusions of his angelic nature. Willful and adventurous, more like.
The man nodded, his short auburn hair glowing in a shaft of slanting sunlight. “Pauline Bonaparte,” he replied. “Very good. But do you know who she represents, here?”
Willie smiled, eager to show off his knowledge. “Venus Victrix,” he said, careful to pronounce the Latin “v” as “w,” as his tutor had instructed him.
“And how do we know that?” the man asked with evident amusement. Phoebe noted from his accent that he must be a fellow American, which was all to the good, she thought. “Did you read it in the guidebook?”
Willie looked offended. “No, she’s holding the apple. It’s from when she beat the other goddesses in the judgment of Paris.” His expression changed. “Although, it seems like she ought to be wearing more clothes. She’d get cold.”
The young man laughed. “I understand that the Emperor’s sister made just that complaint, when she was posing in Canova’s studio.” He’d heard this straight from Pauline’s lips, back in 1808, but of course he wasn’t going to be sharing that nugget of art history with this child.
By this time, Mrs. Hearst had reached them. “Forgive my son,” she said, “if he’s been impertinent.” She laid her hands on Willie’s shoulders. “Willie, dear, do you think you should be bothering strangers?”
He twisted his face up to look at her. “He’s not a stranger, Mama. We introduced each other properly.”
“That we did,” the man agreed. “And are you going to present me to this lady, Master Hearst?”
Willie colored. “Oh. Of course. Mama, may I present Mr. Josef Kostan? Mr. Kostan, my mother, Mrs. George Hearst.”
Josef made a small, polite bow. “My pleasure, Mrs. Hearst. Your son’s manners speak well of you.”
Phoebe Hearst allowed herself a brief flush of pleasure at the compliment. Then she reminded herself that she was essentially alone in a foreign country, and just hearing kind words in a familiar accent was not enough. Compliments were usually flattery. She smiled, a social smile. “You sound American, Mr. Kostan. Where are you from?”
“American, yes.” He supposed by now he could claim citizenship. “My business requires me to travel a great deal. I have spent a good amount of time in New York and Philadelphia, but after this trip, I think my next residence of any length will be farther west. I have—interests—in Denver.”
Mrs. Hearst nodded. Business, she understood. “What sort of business are you in?” It was rude to ask so bluntly, but she wanted to know. And businessmen were often not so finicky about social niceties.
Mr. Kostan smiled and shrugged. “The family business, Night Wind Trading, is in shipping, but we’re planning to diversify. Manufacturing, stocks, whatever turns a profit. It’s a good time for expansion, and the West seems to afford the greatest promise.”
“You should consider California, Mr. Kostan. There are fortunes to be made, on the West Coast.”
He looked thoughtful. “I have, Mrs. Hearst. Truly a land of opportunity.”
“My husband and I have found it so.”
Josef bowed again, slightly. “I’d be most interested to discuss it further with you.” He kept his face open, pleasant. Harmless. More conventional businessmen might scorn the advice of a woman, but he’d seen too many deals ruined, as well as sealed, as the result of social contacts. He’d been drawn to the intensity of a young boy awakening to art, but the Hearst name was not unknown to him. His plans, as always, were adaptable. And a closer acquaintance with this woman, and her son, might be useful to pursue.
Life, as always, was about choices. Some were decisions taken with deliberation and cold logic. Others were on instinct, spur of the moment. This boy, Willie, was special. He’d commented, gazing at a priceless Titian, “Someday I’m going to own paintings like that.” A childish boast, perhaps, from any other boy. But Josef recognized the spirit of rapacity he’d seen in American robber barons, and Josef was not one to ignore true potential. For good or ill, he sensed something in this human boy that drew him. Reaching into the breast pocket of his coat, he pulled out a small gold case. “If you’ll permit me, Mrs. Hearst, I’d look forward to calling upon you to discuss California. And art, with your son. My card.”
Mrs. Hearst felt an odd reluctance to accept the bit of pasteboard from the hand of this stranger. Something in his eyes, perhaps, sent a shiver down her spine. Stiffening, she dismissed the chill as substandard European heating, and forced her hand forward. She knew her manners, after all. “Willie and I will be pleased to receive you, Mr. Kostan,” she said.
Phoebe Apperson Hearst knew all about choices.
III.
Paris, June 1874
The blue Parisian skies had clouded over as the afternoon drew on, and Josef, at least, was glad of the relief from the sun. Not that it made a great deal of difference in the rooms of the Louvre, but sooner or later, he would be forced outside. For now, he could keep to the shade indoors, and let the tow-headed boy with him stay by the window, frowning as he perused his guidebook.
“Having trouble, Willie?” Josef asked.
That only made the scowl deepen. “Maman would have to make me use the French book,” he grumbled. He waved a hand toward the paintings on the opposite wall. “These paintings aren’t French, they’re Dutch. Why should it be better to read about them en Français?”
“I can’t argue your logic. But your maman is very clear on the subject.” The vampire reflected that he’d spent the best part of 275 years avoiding mortal children, and dealing with this one was perplexing, sometimes. Even if, as Josef suspected, Willie was no ordinary child.
The child in question closed his book with a snap, and glared at his friend. “Maman,” he said, “is not here. And another thing. I had a birthday in April. I’m not an infant anymore.”
“And?” Josef prompted.
“I have to let my maman call me Willie, but it isn’t suitable for anyone else to call me that.”
Josef raised his eyebrows, but managed to keep a straight face. “I see. So when we’re speaking—man to man—what would you prefer?”
Willie pondered for a moment, as if Josef’s acquiescence had caught him by surprise. “I think—I think I prefer William Randolph.” He nodded, the decision firming. “Yes. William Randolph.”
Josef inclined his head. “That’s a bit of a mouthful, but if it’s your preference, so be it. And if we’re speaking as adults, then I suppose you should be calling me Josef.”
Willie—William Randolph—stuck out his hand. “Shake on it, Josef?”
“Indeed.” Josef was glad of the pearl gray kid gloves he wore, both protection from the sun and disguise for his cool nature. He wondered, fleetingly, what he’d do if—when—gloves for gentlemen went out of style. Now, though, for an eleven-year-old, William Randolph had a surprisingly strong grip.
This ceremony done, Josef turned his attention back to the artworks on the walls. “Well then, William Randolph, what’s your opinion of this Frangonard?” he asked, adding slyly, “At least it’s French.”
William Randolph pursed his lips, staring intently at the work in question. “Too French. Too—fussy. I like the Italians better.”
They wandered on, Josef offering comments and observations, and listening to his friend’s opinions. The boy was well in his way to a grasp of art history, especially painting. Josef thought William Randolph’s taste in sculpture was still rudimentary, but, as Josef had to remind himself, the boy was eleven. A precocious eleven, but eleven nonetheless. He would develop his own taste, if he had the opportunity. Josef smiled wryly to himself. The formidable Phoebe Hearst might come from plebeian roots, but she’d make sure William Randolph had every opportunity to be a cultured gentleman.
They’d come to a room filled with William Randolph’s beloved Italians, and Josef watched as the boy moved around it. He seemed to be ignoring one painting, examining the others closely. It made Josef curious.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you care for La Gioconda?” Josef asked. He himself had been drawn to the portrait time and again. He might think of himself as a jaded old businessman, or a supercilious immortal above petty human concerns, but the truth was this quiet woman with hands folded demurely and the slight, enigmatic smile, had captivated him. She was as timeless and unchanging as he himself, the chaos and hurly-burly of the world never touching her as she looked out from her dark landscape. Sometimes he imagined that her close-mouthed smile hid a dainty set of fangs. And here he was again, under her spell.
William Randolph snorted. “Not like her? Not like the Mona Lisa? That would be like—like not caring for the sunrise.”
“Not exactly my choice of metaphor. Can you explain?”
“It’s like gravity. It just is. As long as the earth exists, and the sun burns, sunrise will happen, whether you and me like it or not.”
“You and I,” Josef corrected automatically.
“Whatever. This—” William Randolph made an expansive gesture, and Josef somehow perceived him as decades beyond his age, “this is above us, and what we care.”
“ ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’?” Josef quoted. He’d never been fond of the Romantics, particularly Byron, but Keats had occasionally hit on a genuine idea.
William Randolph frowned. “Sort of.”
They fell silent, then, both rapt in the adoration of da Vinci’s immortal portrait.