Cecile says:
Kate’s chosen architect for the revamp of her hotel, Wilhelm von Thann, was one of those special alums of Sarah’s from Saint Loup whom she had bumped into at Speck’s and who turned out to be such a remarkable lovemaker that she addressed him to Kate. The trio had soon evolved beyond paid libertinage, be it the kind of flavour Kate always craved. When he wisely took on the works, under Gauthier’s high-handed supervision, he established for himself a private cubbyhole not unlike my own, in which I had tested the limits of his carnal generosity, as a service I owed Kate, you may say.
Wilhelm is the poster boy of your Baltic blond, and he must have access to some rooftop solarium like the one he has already sold the idea of to Kate —to my own relish. Impossible to suspect any ulterior motive in those straightforward myosotis blue gazes, I let him guess, nonetheless, that I wore nothing under my maroon tracksuit, that after-work informal talk we had about my businesses branching out into the old stables and carriage sheds facing my curen workshop at the ground floor o Kate’s hotel, as roughly envisionned with her, already.
We needed to lay flat the human factor, and I reckoned he would revel in the laid-back disorderliness of the workshop to share some warmed pies from our unmatched Danish caterers, Agnete and Sanne, whom Kate also swore by, during their impromptu trysts —and she had been seen climbing down the stairs cantily clad to collect dinner at the entrance door, it confered a certain Regence to an otherwise gloomy venue.
Kate had already painted a flattering image of me, and I did not wish to let the bygones of my desolate life cramp my desirable present. He was actually more enthralled by my white socks than hearing me bless whatever fortunate circumstances which had built my realm as he could see it. Only I slipped the mention of my fatidic meeting with Sarah, but he knew that already.
As for him, he had been born in Lucern, to a couple of overworked physicians of the time-honoured high-society. He was an only child and impossibly spoiled by his nurses who would certainly not oppose the long curly gold mane pervert angel. He had been feared all over the quaint, antiquated little town soulfully redeemed by the world envied Festival.
At the age of seven, he could read, count, and speak in the three national languages, but no school would keep him longer than a semster, even the most expensive ones. Having craftily abused of his young private schoolmistresses, he had developped an appetite for lechery they wouldn’t even dare report to the rather repressed mother. Once, at a coffee chat in his old boys’ club, some eminent psychiatrist evoked that singular experience, after the British fad of Summerhill schools, where children of UN diplomats thrived in apparent harmony ( it happened to be the heaadmaster’s name, too.). It was set in Versoix, near Geneva, in an old estate called Saint Loup. Their psychological referent was famed Prof. Achenbach, their academic scores landed steadily in the upper middle tier.
After summer camp kayaking the Bodensee and fondling his buddies under the tents at night, he disembarked at Saint Loup in the mellow air of a Seotember day, and he knew at once hec ould cope with the shool Captain, a radiant American girl in jeans and sneakers, as well as Ms Harmony, the headmaster. Altogether, the premises were comely and breathable. He met Sarah von Kettelær, that popular, cosmopolitan Danish aristocrat who had grown mostly in New York because her dad was a UN diplomat, the works. She was older, had a room in the coed building where I wasn’t allowed, but she looked so much better than my buddies in the open showers. The estate comprised a vast park returned to agrestic chaos, with many hideouts where she taught him polyamorous happiness —most of the boarders were easily doable. In a tour they made i the nearby Lausanne Polytechnique, he was hit on by an assistant teacher so as he envisionned applying for an architecture cursus for which his gay crush tutored him in all manners, and Sarah warmly approved.
Once granted the hard-earned diploma, he reckonned that his mentor had crushed on another younger green student, and by the bye he met Gauthier at some professional bash, learned the perfect metrosexual attitude in life, joined the Hellfire club, and bought himself a black card. That is how he found himself at Speck’s, standing before Sarah von Kettelær, stark nude bar some rhinestone trinklets, ready and willing for whatever he craved.
I told him it was her who had fixed me into Lauritz’ pants —after I had worked for months restoring the Art Deco treasures of his house, which had remained closed after the great war— at a time when I would hate myself trading that part of me which had been trampled for years, even though I knew that although i dressed like a tramp, I made heads turn, for that matter, and Sarah’s to begin with.