Wildyr Tales

Augury-1

AuguryAugury (o´gye re), n: the art or practice of divination from omens or signs

—Random House Webster’s College Dictionary

* * * *

I first saw him on a street corner as I left my attorney’s office on a muggy August day while New Mexico’s monsoon season threatened to cut loose at any moment. I don’t know why I noticed him as I was totally wrapped up in discovering changes in my hometown after a long absence. Maybe it was the way he held motionless while humanity washed around him. Or perhaps it was because he was observing me across the broad intersection.

Although I’m a reasonably attractive and fit thirty-five-year-old WASP, handsome strangers do not often stand and stare at me with such intensity. He was too far away to discern his features clearly, but I knew he was young and handsome with the same certainty I knew I was the object of his interest. That he was well put together was obvious even from this distance.

Intrigued, I stepped to the intersection. When the traffic light changed in my favor, I fought my way through the downtown noontime rush of attorneys, bankers, and government workers, all of whom chose that moment to cross Central Avenue. When I reached the far curb, he was gone. Vanished. Poof. Unreasonably frustrated, I looked up and down both West Central and Third Street. There was no dark, mysterious figure. How could he have disappeared so quickly? Mentally shrugging, I reversed course and hurried off to lunch at Eulelia’s in the historic La Posada Hotel.

John Hoar, an old friend and former lover, was already seated, but stood with a big, happy smile on his face to wave me over. He was still a handsome man, I noted with pleasure.

“Ted Oxley,” he roared, holding out a big hand. “Methuselah was a babe the last time I saw you,” Not satisfied with a handshake, he pulled me into an abrazo, the Latin embrace of manly men.

“John, you old Hoar.” I automatically fell into the teasing ways of our brief affair before I left for graduate school at Columbia University thirteen years ago. To be honest, I felt a flicker of interest, the first in some time.

“Teo, Teo.” He reverted to style as well, using the initials for Theodore Ellis Oxley. In fact, that’s the way most people knew me, thanks to him. “God, it’s good to see you. How long has it been?”

Ten…twelve years, I guess. I hear you’re a successful real estate developer now.”

“Developer, yes. Successful? That depends on the month. The day. The hour. It’s a demanding business.”

“What isn’t?”

“I see you’ve come back from restoring the Sistine Chapel.”

I sat opposite him and accepted a menu from the waiter. “Assisi, not Rome,” I replied. “Worked with the team restoring the St. Francis frescoes damaged by the earthquake. Learned a lot, especially about computer restoration.”

“Is it completed now?”

“Oh, no! It’s a long, slow process. It’ll take years yet. Although the computer program they’re using to position broken pieces has cut that time in half. It’s ingenious.”

“How long were you there?”

“A bit over a year. Then I was at the Duomo in Florence for a while. That’s where I got the call.”

“The San Pedro Mission in Alma Pura.” John nodded, looking like the frog that ate the dragonfly.

I smiled at the attractive man opposite me. “I thought you might have something to do with that. You wouldn’t be on the board of the Hixton Trust by any chance, would you?”

“Guilty.”

“Now I know how the name of an obscure art restorer came up in the discussion of some old frescoes in northern New Mexico.”

John took a sip of water and held his tongue until we ordered. “It didn’t come up casually, old son. I checked you up and down and backwards and forwards. You’ve been investigated, my friend. Seriously investigated. And you measured up. You’re a good, competent art restorer specializing in murals and frescoes, as well as a native son. You’ve built a solid reputation, Teo. I wouldn’t have proposed you solely on the basis of friendship…or past relationship. This is too important to the Trust and to the people in the area.”

“I appreciate that. And thanks for the vote of confidence. Have you seen the frescoes recently?”

“Yes. A few of us made the rounds of all the projects. The Hixton Trust is financing the repair of approximately a dozen artworks in danger of being lost. Some are in churches; some are not. One is a mural in a former bank building right in this town.”

I nodded. “The old Albuquerque National Bank.” The building was a block from where we sat.

“Right. But wherever they are, they’re a part of our past.” He grinned impishly, one of the few forty-year-olds of my acquaintance capable of doing so. “But I made sure you got the challenge of the lot.”

“How bad are they?”

“Pretty sorry shape, I’m afraid.”

“Natural or forced?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Is the decay from age and neglect, or has there been some other cause, like an earthquake or a crumbling structure?”

“I’d guess neglect and age, but there are some cracks that may come from a four hundred-year-old building simply getting tired and sagging a little. Although it’s difficult to imagine four-foot walls sagging.”

“Settling,” I corrected. “Well, I’m anxious to get to work. I just signed the contract at my attorney’s office. You do realize it’s going to take some time, don’t you? More importantly, do the authorities on the site, the priests, realize it?”

“They’re likely inured by now. The mission recently underwent a structural restoration, but they didn’t touch the artwork. The Santos and the old crucifix have been removed and taken to a wood restorer. There’s one main fresco of St Peter on the wall behind the altar, and a smaller one of the Patron Saint in the narthex. That one will be more difficult because it’s so damned busy. It’s got a whole host of figures, some you can hardly make out.”

“Have there been problems with the work?” I asked.

John immediately understood I was talking about interference. “No. Have you ever visited the mission?”

“Not since I was a teenager.”

“Well, it’s not staffed permanently. They hire a local man to see to the daily tasks such as locking and unlocking the place, cleaning up, and the like. A priest, Father Hidalgo, travels weekly from the cathedral in Santa Fe to say mass and conduct any other rites that are required. They’ve suspended all services during the restoration.”

“I see. So the only one likely to be breathing down my neck is the caretaker?”

“Probably not even him. He’s a young fellow. Lives at the Teuano Pueblo and drives in every day.”

“An Indian?”

“Yes. Most of the congregation—and to call it a congregation is a stretch—are Indians, mixed-bloods, and the Spanish in the area.”

“And the trust is spending a lot of money to restore the place?”

John frowned. “It’s just the thing old Charlie Hixton had in mind when he set up the trust. He always said big, well-known pieces of art will be taken care of. It was the lesser-known works that needed his help. Besides, the mission is an important piece of northern New Mexico’s heritage, Teo. It deserves to be rescued.”

I held up a protesting hand. “You don’t need to convince me. I believe all art merits salvation.”

Our orders were delivered, and I caught up on this dear friend’s life while we ate. John lived openly with his significant other, a man whom I did not know. Despite his protestations, he was one of the more successful developers in the city. He had a hand in most of the major renovations in the downtown area. Of course, he soon discovered I was alone, prompting a review of mutual acquaintances—who was available and who was not. He didn’t quite buy the claim I had time for nothing but work. He was also a little put out that I could not provide risqué tales of studly young Italians I’d seduced.

“You’re not claiming to be celibate?” he asked suspiciously. “You haven’t converted and become a priest, have you?”

I laughed uneasily. Knowing John, he wouldn’t quit until it came out. “Converted? No. Neither in faith nor in orientation. Celibate? That pretty well describes my life for the past couple of years.”

“Why?” he asked in his blunt manner.

“Long story. Not sure I’m up to telling it yet.” I put up a final, half-hearted resistance.

“Nonsense. Surely a man of letters like you knows confession is good for the soul. At any rate, I need something to fill my busy afternoon.”

We left the dining room and found a couple of comfortable chairs in the magnificent, rustic lobby that magically transports a person a hundred years back in time. After we snagged a couple of drinks, I started down a painful road.

“I was with someone for three years, John. A wonderful man with similar interests and a hyper, quirky sense of humor. We complimented one another perfectly. Don’t know why, because he was as macho as I am, but it worked. Our biggest trouble was fighting off women when we went anywhere together.” I swallowed hard at the memory. “Leo…his name was Leonard…was an art historian.”

“Leo and Teo? That pretty neat,” he interjected.

I didn’t react; I’d commenced and needed to finish. “We were at Columbia together, but were just friends for the first couple of years. Got together almost by accident, but when we did, it was everything it was supposed to be. All the bells and whistles. Everything from knockdown drag-outs to long peaceful moments of enjoying one another to the most perfect lovemaking imaginable.

“Too good to last, I guess, because he got mugged in Washington Square one afternoon by three goons. Being the man he was, he took them on. Mistake. Ended up in the hospital. They did all kinds of tests and assured us he was mending well. For a few weeks he complained of occasional headaches and a lack of energy. Then one day he didn’t get out of bed. I don’t know how long I slept beside him after he died.” My voice broke. “He was clasping my arm when I woke.” Blinking rapidly, I took a swallow of the drink, choking on the liquor.

“Jesus, Teo, I’m sorry.”

“I went nuts, John. After I buried him, I went stark raving mad. I retained just enough sense to realize if I turned to liquor, I’d never crawl out of the bottle. So I started f*****g instead. I’m amazed I’m not dead of AIDS or some other STD. I screwed everything that moved! Got a hell of a reputation…of another sort. It all came to a head one night when two other libertines and I decided to hire some call boys, you know, young studs. I ended up with a novice, a kid from Wyoming who didn’t know what he was getting into. He was seduced by the money and got talked into it by a buddy who was a pro.”

I dropped my head before his gaze. “Damn, what I did to that kid. He’d probably had a blow job before, maybe even given a few, but that’s about all. I f****d him all night long. By morning, the guy was used up. The look in his eyes when I paid him probably saved me. He was hurt—not physically, but deep down where he lived. I likely put the nail in his coffin when I gave him a thousand dollars out of pure guilt. I suffered for that, John. I tried to get in touch with him a couple of time to apologize, maybe mentor him. Hell, who knows? But he was gone. Left town. It bothered me so much I went to a clinic, got tested, and haven’t touched anyone since. I left for Italy shortly after that and figured I’d be lured out of it by those hot Italians, but I wasn’t even tempted.”

“Be damned,” was all John could come up with. “Have you continued to be tested?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “Went to a hospital every three months for two years. Everything’s clear.”

“Don’t know what to say, Teo. You were lucky. Doesn’t even sound like you. You were so damned careful when we were together. A regular pain in the ass about it, as I recall.” He chuckled at the double entendre.