Camino del Monte Sol, ch. 2 (with OBTS) -- PG-13
Posted: Sat May 21, 2011 7:36 pm
Author’s Note: This story is a collaboration between OnceBitTwiceShy and myself for Champagne Challenge #128: Reader/Writer II. OBTS provided the idea of Josef visiting Santa Fe in the 1920’s, and running into…well, you’ll have to read the story. The settings are as accurate as I can make them, having been in Santa Fe myself many times, and also using various resources on the City Different, as they call it, and its inhabitants back in the ‘20s. While I could find no record of a hotel located in Sena Plaza, such a place does exist, and who knows? It could have housed a small hotel at one time. The artists’ colony, and their compound on Camino del Monte Sol, are documented. There will be a thread with a set of pictures and links to places, costumes, cars, posted after most chapters. My thanks to OBTS not only for the idea, but for her encouragement and input as the story progressed. I don’t own Josef, or any of the historical locations and personages mentioned in the story. Any errors or misrepresentations of fact are mine.
Camino del Monte Sol
II. La Fonda
At this hour, the lounge off the lobby of La Fonda was dim, the lights turned low, but that didn’t keep the whitewashed adobe and deep blue glazed tiles from reflecting the noise, and making the most of the available light.
Seated in an out of the way corner that should have given him a good view of the entire lounge, Stephen stared into his coffee cup, morosely. There was no coffee in it, of course, but he regretted the subterfuges Prohibition made a necessity. Even a mediocre whiskey deserved crystal, not this mundane stoneware mug. Looking around the area, he wondered if any of the ubiquitous coffee cups in view actually held coffee. Judging from the general atmosphere of gaiety, he thought not.
At the other side of the lounge, several tables pulled together held a particularly raucous group of men, and a few women, arguing over the sounds of the other patrons and a muted trio of Mexican guitars. It was a pretty fair bet they weren’t drinking coffee, either.
He signalled the waiter with a discreet gesture.
“Another round, sir?”
Nodding his head, he laid a five by his cup. “That table over there,” he said, indicating the noisy group with a well-placed lift of his eyebrows, “they regulars here?”
The waiter smiled as he made the folded money vanish with a practiced hand. “Oh, yes sir,” he said. “Painters. Call themselves Los Cinco Pintores.”
“Indeed. They any good?”
“I like their stuff,” the waiter said with a shrug. “Local landscapes, mostly.”
Stephen nodded. “Put a round for them on my tab, will you?”
“And shall I tell them who it’s from, sir?”
“Just say—a patron of the arts. And while you’re at it, make it three rounds. They look thirsty.”
“Yes sir.”
He settled back to wait, enjoying the comfort of the rustic wooden chair, its thick cushion covered in soft local wool. The starkness of the whitewashed adobe walls and the terra cotta Saltillo tile floors were relieved here and there by woven hangings that matched the upholstery of the cushions on the chairs, and the built-in adobe benches along the walls. The rounded, organic lines of the fireplace, and the crackling blaze within, gave the room an air of comfort and coziness, even if the style of the place was foreign and exotic to his eyes.
He didn’t have to wait too long.
As soon as the drinks were delivered, several pairs of sharp eyes started searching the room for a generous newcomer, and shortly afterwards, a delegation approached.
Two young men—they were all, to Stephen’s eye, in their mid-twenties or thereabouts—begged his pardon for intruding, but, “Perhaps you were the one who sent the drinks?”
Stephen smiled and lifted his cup, as though in a toast.
“Freemont Ellis,” one of them said formally, with only the slightest slurring of his consonants indicating his state of inebriation, “and my associate, Jozef Bakos.”
Bakos bowed slightly but did not speak.
“Stephen Kostan, at your service,” Kostan replied. “I understand you gentlemen are artists?”
“Depends on which critic you read,” Bakos replied, his English noticeably accented. “Perhaps you will join us at our table, and we can discuss our work, if you have an interest.”
Kostan nodded and rose. He had to admit, it gave him a pang of nostalgia to hear the name “Jozef.” Ellis had managed a fair approximation of the correct pronunciation. Ah, well, he thought, names were fleeting things, subject to change and variation.
Still, he liked the look of these artists. They showed neither the studied eccentricity of the poseurs he’d seen in San Francisco, or the hidebound conservatism of the East Coast.
“So,” Bakos said, “you sound as though you have heard of us, yes?”
Stephen nodded. “A friend in Denver recommended your work to me.”
“And who would that be?” Bakos might be young, Stephen reflected, but there was a shrewdness in his eyes that spoke of hard experience.
“I doubt you know him.”
“Depends. I spent time in Denver. I know the art circles there.” It was a challenge, and Ellis, uncomfortable, laid a hand on Bakos’ arm.
Stephen shrugged. “My friend’s name is Slade Weston. And he’s been a sponsor for John Thompson, who is the one who said I should look you fellows up if I wanted a good investment in art.”
Bakos nodded, mollified. “Thompson is a friend of mine. And this Weston—I think I have heard of him.”
By this time they’d reached the table, and Ellis took the host’s duties for himself. “Folks,” he said, “we have a new friend. This is Stephen Kostan. He’s just in from—where did you say?”
“I didn’t. But, Los Angeles is home. For now, anyway.”
Ellis was introducing around the table. “Wladislaw Mruk, althought most people call him Walter these days.”
“I understand the impulse,” Stephen said with a smile. “I spent some time as Istvan, myself.” He saw no need to point out that it had been one of a string of baptismal names, and hardly the first of them.
Mruk nodded affably, puffing on his pipe.
“And this here’s Will Shuster.”
That man raised a cup in salute. “Thanks for the drinks, old boy,” he said.
“And that fellow with the girl on his lap, Willard Nash.” He went on to introduce two or three women, and finally got to the girl on Nash’s lap. Kostan said afterward that it must have been the brittleness of the sound bouncing off the tiles in the lounge, combined with the general background noise that served to fool his normally sharp hearing into misinterpreting her name. It was a momentary lapse, and one he would shrug off as meaningless, but truth be told he wasn’t ever sure about that. Maybe things would have taken a different direction, that first night, and afterwards, if he’d heard properly.
“And this is Willard’s favorite model, Therésa . We mostly call her Reza.”
“Razor?” Stephen said.
They all laughed, except for the girl in question. She leapt up from Nash’s lap and exclaimed, “Razor. I like it.” She backed away from the table, slightly, and struck an exaggerated flamenco pose, somewhat at odds with her fashionable dropped waist cream dress, the hem of its pleated skirt falling just below her knee to show off shapely calves in silk stockings and polished leather t-strap pumps. The face below her close-fitting cloche hat was pointed and vixenish, with dark eyes enormous inside the frame of the cream wool brim. She flung one arm over her head, fingers artfully curved to simulate holding castenets, the other arm somewhat stiffly curled in front of her midsection. She arranged her scarlet-painted lips into a suitably Spanish sneer and said “My name is Therésa Inez Maria Concepcion Martinez Ibanez.” She put one foot forward as though about to launch into dance. “My parents wanted to send me to Spain. They think I can learn flamenco in Seville, and Barcelona. But I told them no! I do not wish to leave Santa Fe. Why in the world would they think that anything in Spain is better than here?”
Everyone at the table applauded, with cries of encouragement.
“And now, I will be known as the Razor.”
“What will you do here, Razor?” one of the men exclaimed. Stephen rather thought it was Shuster.
She said, “I will live, and I will drink.”
“You’re in good company for that!”
“And I will dance,” she continued, taking a few steps, enough that Stephen could tell that she had a geniune talent and grace, despite the drunken parody she was making.
“And,” she said, “I will live and I will love and I will pose, for my beloved Willard.” With that she snatched the cloche off her head, and released a cascade of mahogany hair to tumble free around her shoulders, and launched into a spinning, clapping dance, while her friends stomped their feet and roared approval.
Stephen thought it was Bakos who started the chant, “Ra-zor, ra-zor, ra-zor.” And the guitarists in the background took their cue from her and picked up the pace of their playing to match the rhythm she was beating out with her feet.
Stephen leaned back in his chair, observing, but careful to clap and stop with the others. The heat of her exertion was bringing a rosy glow to her cheeks, and the ceiling fans turning slowly overhead wafted the scent of her straight to him. He didn’t know what it was about some mortals that set them apart from the others, that made their blood tastier, but whatever that quality was, she had it. And he knew then, that sooner or later, he was going to set his fangs into the white column of her throat, and drink the sweetness that she did not know she had to give. He was on the hunt. The gentle hunt, as his sire had called it long ago, the art of seduction. He began to feel the gathering satisfaction of anticipation, and of victory.
Camino del Monte Sol
II. La Fonda
At this hour, the lounge off the lobby of La Fonda was dim, the lights turned low, but that didn’t keep the whitewashed adobe and deep blue glazed tiles from reflecting the noise, and making the most of the available light.
Seated in an out of the way corner that should have given him a good view of the entire lounge, Stephen stared into his coffee cup, morosely. There was no coffee in it, of course, but he regretted the subterfuges Prohibition made a necessity. Even a mediocre whiskey deserved crystal, not this mundane stoneware mug. Looking around the area, he wondered if any of the ubiquitous coffee cups in view actually held coffee. Judging from the general atmosphere of gaiety, he thought not.
At the other side of the lounge, several tables pulled together held a particularly raucous group of men, and a few women, arguing over the sounds of the other patrons and a muted trio of Mexican guitars. It was a pretty fair bet they weren’t drinking coffee, either.
He signalled the waiter with a discreet gesture.
“Another round, sir?”
Nodding his head, he laid a five by his cup. “That table over there,” he said, indicating the noisy group with a well-placed lift of his eyebrows, “they regulars here?”
The waiter smiled as he made the folded money vanish with a practiced hand. “Oh, yes sir,” he said. “Painters. Call themselves Los Cinco Pintores.”
“Indeed. They any good?”
“I like their stuff,” the waiter said with a shrug. “Local landscapes, mostly.”
Stephen nodded. “Put a round for them on my tab, will you?”
“And shall I tell them who it’s from, sir?”
“Just say—a patron of the arts. And while you’re at it, make it three rounds. They look thirsty.”
“Yes sir.”
He settled back to wait, enjoying the comfort of the rustic wooden chair, its thick cushion covered in soft local wool. The starkness of the whitewashed adobe walls and the terra cotta Saltillo tile floors were relieved here and there by woven hangings that matched the upholstery of the cushions on the chairs, and the built-in adobe benches along the walls. The rounded, organic lines of the fireplace, and the crackling blaze within, gave the room an air of comfort and coziness, even if the style of the place was foreign and exotic to his eyes.
He didn’t have to wait too long.
As soon as the drinks were delivered, several pairs of sharp eyes started searching the room for a generous newcomer, and shortly afterwards, a delegation approached.
Two young men—they were all, to Stephen’s eye, in their mid-twenties or thereabouts—begged his pardon for intruding, but, “Perhaps you were the one who sent the drinks?”
Stephen smiled and lifted his cup, as though in a toast.
“Freemont Ellis,” one of them said formally, with only the slightest slurring of his consonants indicating his state of inebriation, “and my associate, Jozef Bakos.”
Bakos bowed slightly but did not speak.
“Stephen Kostan, at your service,” Kostan replied. “I understand you gentlemen are artists?”
“Depends on which critic you read,” Bakos replied, his English noticeably accented. “Perhaps you will join us at our table, and we can discuss our work, if you have an interest.”
Kostan nodded and rose. He had to admit, it gave him a pang of nostalgia to hear the name “Jozef.” Ellis had managed a fair approximation of the correct pronunciation. Ah, well, he thought, names were fleeting things, subject to change and variation.
Still, he liked the look of these artists. They showed neither the studied eccentricity of the poseurs he’d seen in San Francisco, or the hidebound conservatism of the East Coast.
“So,” Bakos said, “you sound as though you have heard of us, yes?”
Stephen nodded. “A friend in Denver recommended your work to me.”
“And who would that be?” Bakos might be young, Stephen reflected, but there was a shrewdness in his eyes that spoke of hard experience.
“I doubt you know him.”
“Depends. I spent time in Denver. I know the art circles there.” It was a challenge, and Ellis, uncomfortable, laid a hand on Bakos’ arm.
Stephen shrugged. “My friend’s name is Slade Weston. And he’s been a sponsor for John Thompson, who is the one who said I should look you fellows up if I wanted a good investment in art.”
Bakos nodded, mollified. “Thompson is a friend of mine. And this Weston—I think I have heard of him.”
By this time they’d reached the table, and Ellis took the host’s duties for himself. “Folks,” he said, “we have a new friend. This is Stephen Kostan. He’s just in from—where did you say?”
“I didn’t. But, Los Angeles is home. For now, anyway.”
Ellis was introducing around the table. “Wladislaw Mruk, althought most people call him Walter these days.”
“I understand the impulse,” Stephen said with a smile. “I spent some time as Istvan, myself.” He saw no need to point out that it had been one of a string of baptismal names, and hardly the first of them.
Mruk nodded affably, puffing on his pipe.
“And this here’s Will Shuster.”
That man raised a cup in salute. “Thanks for the drinks, old boy,” he said.
“And that fellow with the girl on his lap, Willard Nash.” He went on to introduce two or three women, and finally got to the girl on Nash’s lap. Kostan said afterward that it must have been the brittleness of the sound bouncing off the tiles in the lounge, combined with the general background noise that served to fool his normally sharp hearing into misinterpreting her name. It was a momentary lapse, and one he would shrug off as meaningless, but truth be told he wasn’t ever sure about that. Maybe things would have taken a different direction, that first night, and afterwards, if he’d heard properly.
“And this is Willard’s favorite model, Therésa . We mostly call her Reza.”
“Razor?” Stephen said.
They all laughed, except for the girl in question. She leapt up from Nash’s lap and exclaimed, “Razor. I like it.” She backed away from the table, slightly, and struck an exaggerated flamenco pose, somewhat at odds with her fashionable dropped waist cream dress, the hem of its pleated skirt falling just below her knee to show off shapely calves in silk stockings and polished leather t-strap pumps. The face below her close-fitting cloche hat was pointed and vixenish, with dark eyes enormous inside the frame of the cream wool brim. She flung one arm over her head, fingers artfully curved to simulate holding castenets, the other arm somewhat stiffly curled in front of her midsection. She arranged her scarlet-painted lips into a suitably Spanish sneer and said “My name is Therésa Inez Maria Concepcion Martinez Ibanez.” She put one foot forward as though about to launch into dance. “My parents wanted to send me to Spain. They think I can learn flamenco in Seville, and Barcelona. But I told them no! I do not wish to leave Santa Fe. Why in the world would they think that anything in Spain is better than here?”
Everyone at the table applauded, with cries of encouragement.
“And now, I will be known as the Razor.”
“What will you do here, Razor?” one of the men exclaimed. Stephen rather thought it was Shuster.
She said, “I will live, and I will drink.”
“You’re in good company for that!”
“And I will dance,” she continued, taking a few steps, enough that Stephen could tell that she had a geniune talent and grace, despite the drunken parody she was making.
“And,” she said, “I will live and I will love and I will pose, for my beloved Willard.” With that she snatched the cloche off her head, and released a cascade of mahogany hair to tumble free around her shoulders, and launched into a spinning, clapping dance, while her friends stomped their feet and roared approval.
Stephen thought it was Bakos who started the chant, “Ra-zor, ra-zor, ra-zor.” And the guitarists in the background took their cue from her and picked up the pace of their playing to match the rhythm she was beating out with her feet.
Stephen leaned back in his chair, observing, but careful to clap and stop with the others. The heat of her exertion was bringing a rosy glow to her cheeks, and the ceiling fans turning slowly overhead wafted the scent of her straight to him. He didn’t know what it was about some mortals that set them apart from the others, that made their blood tastier, but whatever that quality was, she had it. And he knew then, that sooner or later, he was going to set his fangs into the white column of her throat, and drink the sweetness that she did not know she had to give. He was on the hunt. The gentle hunt, as his sire had called it long ago, the art of seduction. He began to feel the gathering satisfaction of anticipation, and of victory.
And thank you, OBTS, for the idea! 
And I can't wait to see what happens with Razor...
