As he navigated the subdued corridors, his tempered stride unhurried above the muted flooring of the prosperous publisher’s Midtown post, he was greeted with an infectious enthusiasm, usually reserved for premières of state, the celebrated, and those rarified individuals, whose social cachet can only be countered by the weight of their fortunes.
“Mulberry,” Neil would exclaim from his leather perch. “Have a seat!”
The architect took his place at the desk of Neil Horowitz, allowing his patient frame to halt within the sturdy embrace of the nondescript office chair. Strewn about the desk in similarly non-sequential order, were the rose petal pages of his broken friend’s travels.
“So, I’ve been going through this journal…”
Neil took hold of a page leaf, reclining comfortably in the leather chaise, to reference the linen document.
“Actually, it was my wife who read through the entire thing. She loves it.”
The artisan fancier lowered his gaze momentarily.
“I mean, absolutely loves it!” Neil beamed. “And you know Lucy. She hates everything I publish.”
Maxwell raised his acute vision, to observe the media mogul once more.
“From what I can tell, the man’s done everything,” Neil asserted. “Been everywhere.”
Maxwell listened, his navy blue Tom Ford ensemble as quiet as his demeanor. And though his thoughts did amble from global marketing plans to dinner tables fashioned in onyx stone, he afforded the publishing mogul his continued attention, who was generous in his admiration of the quixotic exploits of the de Gris Laurent heir.
“I mean, this is great Max. This is really fucking great! To think! A gazillionaire! Who knows how much money this guy has, right? Completely vanishes off the face of the Earth, donates his fortune to charity, travels to some god-awful, third world countries, lives off the land, I mean…”
Maxwell observed, as Neil found it difficult to reserve his delirium.
“I can get the studios to back a film,” Neil said. “I’ve already got Avi Levine on a plane back to New York to work on a global marketing push!”
Despite the publisher’s enthusiasm, Maxwell knew that defined certainty, in relation to several years of unanswered questions, remained with a man, who at this time, most likely held court on the Côte d’Azur.
The architect began to rise from the anonymous seat, and begged the forgiveness of his exasperated host.
“My apologies,” Maxwell began. “If you will excuse me.”
“Where are you going?” the publisher insisted.
The Platonist architect observed his contemporary once more, before returning the chair to its original post.
Implode. Part LXX – DK