The Visitor (8 page)

Andrew returned, held his arms out, and looked around. “So do you like the plane? The company just bought this one. It’s a Gulfstream. The interior is custom.”

Shanta looked around in amazement. “This is fantastic!”

“Say,” Andrew then said. “I notice you have never asked me the what my company does.”

“I felt it was not my place to inquire. I thought that if you wanted to tell me, you would do so.”

“My father built the largest chicken franchise business in the world. Now the majority of it is held in trust for me.”

“Wow! It must sell a lot of chickens.”

***

“There’s Roger.”

Upon their return from London, Andrew waived excitedly at the comforting sight of his driver. Shanta came to the doorway of the Gulfstream. Andrew pointed to a white, stretch Lincoln limousine that had just stopped on the tarmac. Andrew led Shanta down the steps of the plane at the New Orleans airport.

“So nice to see you, sir, and you, Madam Laxshimi,” Roger said. “I only received your change of destination to New Orleans yesterday, and I had to rush here to put things in order.”

The limousine pulled up to the circular drive of the New Orleans Windsor Court Hotel. Andrew, familiar with the hotel, went right to the reception area, which consisted of several large, luxurious, private desks with comfortable chairs across from an individual host. A man behind one desk recognized him and stood.

“It’s always a pleasure to see you again, Master Saunders.”

“Thank you. It’s nice to be here again. This is my guest, Shanta Laxshimi.”

“It is indeed a great pleasure to be introduced to such a charming lady,”

With an enormous smile at being treated so royally, Shanta said, “Why, thank you.” She sat next to Andrew in the overstuffed, green leather seat beside his.

“I heard that Mr. Eschmann is staying here full time now,” Andrew said. “I hope he’s in.”

“He may be in his room. Shall I call on him to announce your arrival?”

“No, not like that. That would be rude. Why don’t you give us rooms, and send him a written note that we’re here, and to call on me at his convenience if he would be so kind?”

“Would you like a high room facing on the river side, as usual?” The receptionist remembered and kept on record what his wealthy guest preferred.

“Yes, river view. But make that two adjoining suites please.”

***

“Sautéed French Foie Gras with Aromatic Pearl Couscous Fig Demi-Glace and Cumin Crackers for my appetizer.” That was Mr. Eschmann’s choice. He turned to the lovely Shanta. “What would you like?”

Mr. Eschmann was treating the couple to the Grill Dining Room in the hotel, a grand place to dine. He was in his own, in a world of the best foods anywhere.

She was ready to read out from the menu. “Crisp Potato Galette with Smoked Salmon, Vodka and Caviar Crème Fraiche. That sounds soooo good.”

“Andrew?” Mr. Eschmann turned to him.

Looking to the waiter for help, as many of the menu selections were foreign to him, Andrew asked, “Is there a special tonight that you recommend?”

“Sir, you might enjoy the Char,” the waiter said.

No one explaining what Char is, Andrew felt dumb. “Isn’t
Char
what we do to new oak barrels before we put in bourbon for aging?” One thing he knew well was the making of Kentucky bourbon, common knowledge of those who grew up where he did, not to mention the fact that his trust owned one of the major distilleries and he had visited it often in the years prior. No one came to his aid. “In fact, our barrels are so much in demand that after we use them once, the discards are sold to Scotland for aging Scotch, which they use for aging for 12 or more years and then call it single malt, as though that was something special,” he said. “The used barrels are also sent to Jamaica for aging rum and also to Louisiana for aging Tabasco.”

Eschmann finally came to his rescue. “
Char
is fish but I’m not sure where it is caught.” He looked to the waiter for an answer.

The waiter promptly complied. “That’s a fish similar to trout, normally found in the mountainous districts of Wales but, in this case, Alaska. It’s called Arctic Char, and I recommend it, as it’s splendid.”

Andrew relaxed. “Okay, I will take that at the appetizer. It is here on the menu. It is called the Arctic Char Sautéed with Fresh Chanterelles and Peanut Potatoes Tarragon Oil and Smoked Butter.”

Mr. Eschmann then picked his main course. “I’m going with the Prime New York Strip with Braised Endives and Leeks, Truffle Parisienne Potato, Cuban Oregon Sauce. And please bring me some truffle salt for my beef. I can only take a little salt at my age, and I like it to flavor the beef well. How about you, Shanta?”

She had a look at the goodies on the menu and picked one. “Seared Maine Lobster with Miso Glaze and Taro Root Parsnip Puree, Ginger Soy Sauce. I don’t know what all that is on the lobster, except for the ginger soy sauce, but it sounds delicious.”

“Andrew?”

“Rack of Lamb with Chick Pea Puree and Artichoke Ragout, Lemon Oregano Jus.”

The waiter left to set in motion the gastronomic extravaganza. Eschmann then felt it would be the time and place to ask what Andrew had come to see him about.

Andrew spoke first, politely, with southern manners, not jumping into the subject. “So how’ve you been, Mr. Eschmann?”

Eschmann sipped his Johnny Walker Blue Label. Notwithstanding the fact that the trust he was in charge of administering, which owned a Bourbon distillery, he preferred Blue Label when the best was served. But he always took bourbon over cheap scotch, unless Blue Label was available. “Andrew, now that I’m retired, I conduct such minor matters as seeing an old acquaintance over a wonderful meal. I’ve moved here from Kentucky for that very purpose. You know, I don’t play golf or engage in any pursuits other than epicurean.”

The three of them sat in a circular booth where they could all face one another equally, that arrangement having been selected by Eschmann, a master at conducting meetings.

Eschmann took a sip of his pre-dinner scotch. “I haven’t seen you since the funeral last year. What have you been up to?”

“Nothing much. Since Dad died, I’ve just been traveling about. I just came back from London yesterday with Shanta. Did you sell your home when you moved in here? I used to love it when Mom and Dad brought me over there when I was little.”

“Yep. When Charlotte died, I felt very lonely there. And there was always so much upkeep. Charlotte took care of the gardens, you know, and that was quite a lot of work, even with help. I decided to sell and pass out all the antiques and things to our three kids. What they didn’t take was given away. Thanks to the retainer your father provided me, which still continues, I’m able to afford to live here in this hotel. It is funny--when you are young, you think one day you will own a castle, and you strive to build up a big estate. We ended up with a big place, as you recall. Forty acres. But then there comes a time, or at least it did with me, when you realize that collecting things is more of a burden than it is rewarding. Things require polishing and maintenance. Many bathrooms mean more leaks to fix. Carpet care. Drapery cleaning. Wood floor refinishing. Fireplace maintenance. Appliances breaking down. Endless. Keeping up the big place was nearly a full time job for one person, even with a full time-servant.”

“How is Sherman?” Andrew asked, referring to the wonderful, huge, black man that used to work for Eschmann.

“Sherman’s fine. He now lives with one of his kids. He’ll be eighty-three this year. He was with me for forty-five years.”

“I sure like him,” Andrew said, reminiscing. After a pause for remembering good times, he asked, “How do you like living in this hotel? Don’t you have to have almost no possessions to live in just a hotel?”

“It’s wonderful! I have only a few clothing items and personal effects. I collect nothing! I get cable on the big screen in the room and can order anything around the clock. The room is made up daily when I step out, and all I have to do is put my clothes to be cleaned in a pile. They return the next day, placed properly in the closet, all ready to wear. And all of this is just two blocks from the French Quarter. I’m close to some of the finer restaurants in the US. And you know I love food!”

He chuckled. “So, what might I be able to do for you? This old, retired attorney isn’t what he used to be, you know. I have aches, pains, and arthritis. I have to take medicine for high blood pressure.”

Andrew came to the point of the visit. “Shanta and I need your help. I’ve taken up following the Dalai Lama. Do you know of Him?”

Playing dumb, Eschmann said, “A little. He wears those orange robes and has the round glasses. He seems to get invited to dine with heads of state quite a lot. Seems to me they gave him a Nobel Peace Prize--that is what they do when you are an exiled leader.”

“Yep! That’s Him.”

“So what might I possibly do that could help out with the Dalai Lama, who, I believe, is supposed to be a holy man? I’m just a small town lawyer who moved to New Orleans to retire.”

“You always had some fantastic connections and resources for Dad. I remember him telling me how he could not get those in authority to open our chicken franchises in parts of Asia, and you found the way. I’m interested to see if there’s something that can be done privately to somehow get the Dalai Lama back into Tibet. If anyone could, it would be you.”

“Andrew, you know I was practically a sole practitioner, with only one assistant lawyer and a staff of only two secretaries, and I do not have all those connections like those lawyers with friends in the White House. I think you have too big of an image of what I can do.”

“As I recall,” Andrew said, “it wasn’t political influence that got the chicken franchises opened in several countries in Asia which were not allowing it, but very private influence--yours, to be exact.”

Eschmann looked at Shanta so that Andrew could see him looking, his way of communicating the question of how much he should say in front of her, a stranger to family business. Andrew saw the gesture. “Don’t worry about Shanta. She and I are together.”

Eschmann paused for a moment, wondering how much to say. It had been years since the bribes were arranged, too long ago to still be sensitive to discuss. And, after all, the beneficiary of the trust that he himself had set up was Andrew, who was sitting across from him asking him for help. Financially, Andrew was in league with the richest. Also, Eschmann owed a duty of loyalty and respect to Andrew’s father, who had told him to look after his only son. Andrew had gotten himself in miscellaneous trouble over the years that Eschmann had been able to fix. Nothing too serious--he had been expelled from a university for various antics, and Eschmann was able to get him back in by arranging a large endowment. But Andrew dropped out later, anyway, and never got a degree. Andrew was not the most stable of persons, and he had seen various counselors and a psychiatrist for a time in order to stay out of jail. He did not show any signs of having the wherewithal to take over the business. Consequently, the trust was set up so that the business was run by professionals, and the profits, which were huge, went to Andrew. Eschmann could hardly refuse, although he doubted the wisdom of private intervention into political matters.

He decided to risk discussing it in front of this new woman with Andrew, although he doubted the longevity of this new relationship. “The main method used was what the Chinese call
fragrant oil.

“
Bribes
!” Andrew guessed at the interpretation and blurted it out loudly.

Eschmann, the seasoned trial lawyer and trained like an actor in use of body language, staged a flinch as though someone fired a shot over his shoulder and he had to duck to miss being hit. He looked around, as though to see if anyone was listening, a physical signal to Andrew to lower his voice and select his choice of words more discretely. Andrew clearly did not have the subtlety of a seasoned pleader.