Amadoro

CHAPTER ONE-1

CHAPTER ONEAshton Hendrie was aware of his leather heels echoing through the deserted marble corridors with such a hollow reverberation that he might be striding through a mausoleum. The closed doors on either side would fly open, at any moment, to reveal endless rows of vaults where forgotten skeletons were long immured. Citizens of Manhattan who perished in some monstrous catastrophe.

He’d never known such thoughts when he walked through here, hundreds of times in the past, before he met Sandra Saunders and heard her convincing arguments for life after death.

This was New York City. Alive, noisy and vibrant. Not an abandoned metropolis.

The streets, far below, had been dazzling in bright sunlight as his taxi brought him down Fifth Avenue from his apartment, where his wife was sleeping late.

Today was the first Sunday in June and he was on his way to have lunch with Tim Carrington, his editor in chief, along with half a dozen top staff members. Always happened whenever he finished a new cover story for Metropole. He did this four or five times every year and looked forward to meeting the old man with anticipation and a slight feeling, as always, of apprehension.

He would be given his next cover assignment, after he’d been congratulated for the job just finished. Recently he’d been unhappy about some of the proposed subjects. Either the individuals hadn’t interested him or, in several instances, he’d known them personally and disliked them. When he turned a portrait subject down, it was not assigned to either of the other regular writers but was dropped and never mentioned again.

Sandra Saunders’ face was on the cover of the new issue of Metropole that would be handed out today by Tim’s secretary. Either a painting or a clever caricature. He hoped, this time, the caricature wouldn’t be too eccentric or the painting too revealing, because he admired Sandra more than most of the celebrities he had profiled in the recent past.

On weekdays this public corridor was crowded with a noisy rush of people from many strata of city life because every suite was occupied. There were law firms, an advertising agency, a famous diamond importer, and several tenants so important they had no identification on their doors.

He wondered about those anonymous suites. Did they belong to foreign governments in fear of bombings or were they hidden lairs for the alphabet boys? The FBI, the CIA, or the KGB?

Today every door would be locked. He knew this to be a fact because, from time to time, he tried a few as he came in for these Sunday meetings.

Only the main street entrance to this impersonal skyscraper—the glass-and-marble atrium with its phony waterfall and artificial sunlight facing Park Avenue—was open weekends. Two uniformed guards were positioned behind a circular marble information desk, their backs to a long central corridor with rows of facing elevators broken by side corridors leading to the Fifty-first and Fifty-second streets entrances, which were never unlocked on Saturday or Sunday.

Today’s brunch should be even more interesting than usual.

He’d done a fine profile of Sandra Saunders. Amusing, informative, and slightly sensational. The three most important requirements. Much better than his last one. The egotism of symphony conductors was not conducive to the writing of an honest portrait. You could never dig out the man behind the silken mask. He’d done that arrogant Viennese conductor three years ago and had felt the same urge to add acid to his usual mixture of fact and satire. He’d resisted the urge and both profiles had been personal failures.

It was quite different with Sandra Saunders. For one thing, she had talked—openly and freely—about past and present and made some startling predictions concerning the future. His future as well as that of some famous people and the world in general. Some of which were confidential and had not been revealed in his article.

He’d come to like Sandra, without any reservations, although he’d been skeptical at their first meeting because he had no real understanding of either parapsychology or astrology. Now he knew a great deal about both and was convinced of their validity.

He hoped this new celebrity he would be assigned today would prove as fascinating a subject and as human. Unfortunately, so many of them were neither. Successful people seemed to lose their humility as they scrambled up their golden ladders.

His destination was now in sight, straight ahead, at the end of a long side corridor. A pair of teak doors held the familiar logo of Metropole magazine embossed upon a large enamel disk at the center of each. Simple, elegant and dignified, to suggest the very special qualities of the famous international monthly.

He pushed one of the doors open and saw the familiar red-haired beauty ensconced at her gleaming aluminum desk near the far wall. She never looked up but he was certain she knew who had entered and heard the door whisper shut behind him as he crossed the immense foyer with its eccentric modern sofas and chairs, everything designed to impress or intimidate the visitor. He still felt awed by its size, after five years of passing through here.

Checking the rows of framed Metropole covers hanging on the walls as he passed, to be sure that the famous people he’d written about were still there. He saw Kissinger first, then Jessie Norman, and Woody Allen. Twenty of them now. Each representing at least three months of his life.

Miss Delaney, as was her custom, appeared to be absorbed in the Book Review section of the Sunday Times. He wondered if she really read it or only used it to impress the many doubters of her intelligence. She’d been hired, obviously, for her glorious red hair, large blue eyes and ravishing figure. She looked up, finally, and smiled sweetly as he passed her desk.

“Morning, Maggie.”

“They’re expecting you. In fact, you’re the last.”

“I intended to be.” He didn’t hesitate or turn from the straight path he always followed to reach the pair of inner doors with their smaller circular logo. Opened one of them and hurried down the inner corridor past more closed doors which led to various departments of the magazine, toward the single massive carved oak door at the end.

His wife wouldn’t wake before noon. Her eyes, at this moment, were masked in pink satin, her ears silenced. Their housekeeper, Rosie, would nudge her awake when she brought a breakfast tray with one section of the Sunday Times. Mara only read the theater news. She had given two performances yesterday, with another coming up tonight. They rarely saw each other weekend evenings when she was working but he would pick her up tonight, after the play, and take her somewhere pleasant for supper to celebrate his latest portrait. Mara enjoyed celebrations.

The door to his editor in chief’s sanctum held no logo or name. Everyone knew this was Tim Carrington’s office.

Ash went in and hurried through the deserted outer office—Carrington’s secretary, Miss Crevani, would be in the gallery waiting for her cue to produce copies of the new issue—and flung open the inner door.

Several people were talking at once but someone had noticed his arrival and begun to applaud. Others looked around and the sound grew until everyone was applauding.

This had never happened in the past.

He nodded his head as he crossed the paneled room, between half a dozen staff members in a circle of armchairs, facing the impressive white-haired man seated at the desk. Ash realized that he was jerking his head up and down in response to the applause, like Woody Allen. He stopped immediately.

Carrington rose behind his antique English desk, still applauding. “Good job, Ashton. One of your best. I’ve just been saying it should sell every copy of our June issue.”

“Thank you, sir. I certainly hope so.”

The others were on their feet as the applause died down.

“Afraid I don’t have an acceptance speech prepared.” His eyes moved around their smiling faces, all friendly, except for managing editor Tony Rufino. This was a special moment and Ash was touched.

“It is my considered opinion,” Carrington continued, “that our cover stories—each succeeding portrait, but especially those by Ashton Hendrie—have become the absolute best of their kind.”

Ash sank into an armchair that had been waiting for him, close to the desk, as the other staff members resumed their seats.

Carrington remained standing. “All three of our investigative reporters and the infrequent outsider brought in for a special portrait are, of course, excellent. And everyone concerned, in each department, is an essential contributor to the quality, but for this past year I’ve felt, and so has our esteemed publisher—my friend and colleague, Horace Bradshaw—that the cover portraits by Ashton Hendrie are outstanding. This latest one, I suspect, may be his best.”

Another flurry of applause.

Ash laughed. “Am I about to receive my severance pay, sir?”

“God forbid! I hope, Ash, that you will continue with these brilliant jobs you’re doing for as long as I am editor in chief of Metropole. And long after.”

“Congratulations, Ash!” A light female voice.

He saw that it was Amanda Kwong, chief of the research department and his favorite associate. “Thanks, Mandy. We did it together.”

“You’re the best, Ash!” This voice was male.

Ash turned, recognizing the soft Louisiana accent of Cort Fontaine, and saw a flash of white teeth against his handsome dark brown face. Cort was the magazine’s brilliant art director. “You always make my written portrait look better with your pictures.”

Carrington laughed. “We could go on like this, my friends, but there is much to be done and brunch is waiting. Each of us has, already, enjoyed reading the portrait of Sandra Saunders but only Cort and I, as usual, have seen the June cover since it arrived from the printer.” He sat down and pressed a button under his desk. “Miss Crevani is waiting with a stack of mint copies. Metropole! That sophisticated monthly devoted to the good life. The magazine for trendsetters and achievers!”

One of the north doors had opened and Carrington’s secretary swept in from the gallery as though making a stage entrance, followed by a grinning youth bearing a pile of large white envelopes which he distributed, starting with Carrington and Ash, then handing one to each staff member as Miss Crevani observed his progress.

Ash smiled. This routine was the same every month. The only change was that Miss Crevani wore a smart new dress each time.

“That should be all for the moment, Miss Crevani.” Carrington waved her away and slipped the thick magazine from its envelope.

All the others were doing the same thing while Miss Crevani and her assistant returned to the gallery.

Ash saw, as the glossy cover slid from its envelope, that the color portrait was a handsome oil painting of Sandra Saunders looking most impressive. Silver hair around the plump face, inquisitive blue eyes. She was smiling and the artist had slimmed a few pounds from her weight. “It’s an excellent portrait. Sandra will be delighted.”

“That’s splendid!” Carrington exclaimed. “I said it was one of our better ones, Cort, when you showed me the finished canvas, but it’s even more impressive in print.”

“Thank you, sir.” Cort darted a glance toward Ash, who nodded in agreement.

Carrington set the magazine down, gently, on his desk. “Let us know, Ash, what reaction you get from Miss Saunders.”

“I’ll very likely show her a copy this afternoon.”

“Excellent! Our next item of business, as usual, is your next portrait.”

Ash straightened apprehensively, prepared for another name he would reject. When that had happened in the past, it caused embarrassment because he always had to come up with acceptable reasons for his refusal. Thus far he had succeeded.

“The subject for your September assignment was decided, earlier this week, at a meeting of the board. We all know that our July cover features Iris Murdoch and the August portrait will be Placido Domingo. Only two staff members, at this point, know the identity of the person selected for September. Cort’s been searching for pictures and Miss Kwong has been doing her customary in-depth research on the proposed subject.”