The Stallion (1996) Read Online Free PDF Page B

a girl comfortably reclining with her legs apart, wearing one red stocking and one green. The owner of the gallery who sold it to her came to the apartment to help her hang and light it. She was heavily pregnant and did not want to climb on a ladder to install a spotlight in the track. When Angelo came in, that is where the man was: on the ladder.
    “Angelo,” said Cindy, “I want you to meet Dietz von Keyserling—more formally, Dietrich von Keyserling. He sold me the Neiman.”
    “I’ll shake hands when you come down,” said Angelo. “It would be something of a challenge to your balance, I’m afraid.”
    He examined the lithograph and decided he liked it very much. Although the subject was decidedly immodest, the artist’s technique made it modest. It was erotic only in a restrained and subtle way.
    Von Keyserling adjusted the light and came down. He was a tall, slender young man, about Cindy’s age, which was twenty-five, and he was handsome, though Angelo found him a little too … pretty. He was blond. His cheekbones were high and pronounced. His lips were full and a little redder than most men’s. He wore a double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons, a white cotton turtleneck, and crisply pressed gray slacks.
    “It is very good to meet you, Mr. Perino,” said von Keyserling. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe you drove a Porsche 908 in the Nürburgring in nineteen sixty-eight. I was there. I saw you drive, did I not?”
    “You saw me,” said Angelo “It was in the twilight of my years. I managed not to slam a wall and nearly bum myself alive; but that was about all I accomplished that year.”
    “He’s modest,” said Cindy. “He’s one of the great drivers, and he was still a driver the others feared in nineteen sixty-eight.”
    “They called the 908 the Short-Tail, did they not?”
    “You know something about racing,” said Angelo. “The 917 was faster but not handy, not maneuverable like the 908.1 loved that car.”
    “You drove a number of marques. Was it your favorite?”
    “Well, Porsche … Ferrari.”
    “Brandy?” asked Cindy. “At this stage, I’m not having any, but that’s no reason why you two shouldn’t.”
    The two men nodded their assent, and Cindy brought a bottle of Courvoisier and two snifters.
    Angelo raised his brandy and saluted. “I am happy to have met you, Mr. von Keyserling.”
    “Please. In America everyone calls me Dietz. I am Dietrich Josef Maximilian von Keyserling, but I enjoy American informality and like to be called simply Dietz. It is what my mother called me. I am, incidentally, Austrian, not German. From Vienna.”
    “Dietz—okay. I’m Angelo.”
    “Dietz and I have been talking about a business proposition,” Cindy said to Angelo. “If we can work out terms he might sell me a partnership in his gallery.”
    “The terms,” said von Keyserling, “would be that we would work together. She is going to be a young mother, and I would not expect her to devote much time to the business at first. But as the gallery is now a sole proprietorship, I do not feel I can take a holiday. Cindy could cover for me when I need to be away, especially on buying trips in Europe.”
    The young man spoke virtually flawless English, which he had obviously learned in England and which so far had been only slightly modified for the States. Occasionally a word or two betrayed him—as, “we would vork togedder.”
    “I think both of you must look to lawyers for advice,” said Angelo. “A contract. And I don’t think a partnership is a good idea. You should incorporate the business and own shares.”
    “Ah. I looked to you for good adwice.”
    “I won’t object, of course,” said Angelo. He smiled. “As if I could.”
    “I assure you, Angelo,” said von Keyserling, “I would not enter a business arrangement with your wife without your consent. I am maybe old-fashioned that way.”

IV
1973
1
    First class or no first class, 747 or no 747, the flight