“I would have thought someone who owns a mallet would know how to correct—”
“Perhaps the best correction is knowing when to sculpt rather than chisel,” I interrupted with a tense smile. “Why labor and hit dry plaster when you could guide the material while it’s still malleable?”
Her mother’s mouth fell agape, opening and closing like a beached fish.
“It is good to practice foresight, Mrs. De Villier. Or else we all may exert ourselves from ill preparation of due process.”
“My wife has had enough to drink, it seems,” Mr. De Villier spoke from the doorway, an edge to his tone that made Mrs. De Villier sit straight, like he’d yanked a string on a marionette. “It’s time you retire, dear.”
She blinked a couple times, eyes glassy from intoxication or embarrassment as she wiped a bit of liquor from the corner of her lips, suddenly overly concerned about appearances. Fear is, indeed, sobering.
“Arkady,” he beckoned, “come with me.”
The study was exactly as you would imagine. Dark and intimidating, all too clean for everyday use. The only part of the room used was the top of the desk; even the guest chairs didn’t look like they were as popular compared to the office seat.
The mantel was antique, possibly fourteenth century, yet the hearth was barely stained, not much evidence of experience to match the age of its facade.
“I apologize on behalf of my wife.” Petronille’s father grunted, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he sat on the edge of his desk. “She is better at public relations than private ones.”
“That’s a peculiar type of vice, especially in one so used to catering words.”
“The difference is that the words from her mouth are rarely copywritten,” he joked, beginning to pack his pipe.
“Sounds dangerous.”
Mr. De Villier lit his pipe, puffing to get the ember glowing. He never seemed in a rush to do anything, relaxation afforded to few. Yet, you would think it would reflect badly on how little he valued other people’s time. Mine was a dime on his dollar, and he didn’t shy away from the insinuations.
If I weren’t already a bit agitated from his wife’s words, his general demeanor may not have bothered me so.
His lips moved, leisurely puffing tobacco while not even bothering to look at me as he spoke. I could grab him by the whiskers and pull as hard as I could, show him what a working man’s hands actually felt like as I buried them in his face, or plunge that exorbitantly gilded pen into his eye the next time he glanced sideways at me as if to check if I was lifting anything from his trinket collection.
“Did you hear me, boy?” He muffled a cough as he exhaled.
My eyes snapped to his, and for a moment I thought he could read my thoughts. His expression wasn’t one of fear, no, it was similar to the look you gave a child who you knew was about to scream in public.
“No, I was preoccupied with the craftsmanship of your study.” I smiled. “I can appreciate good taste. It’s rare that it is all in one place.”
“That’s because you’re one of the good ones.” He chuckled. “One is either wealthy in money or in skill, rarely both.”
I wanted to roll my eyes, but they stayed fixated on the ornate desk he sat upon. I approached the front, touching the carvings of the edge, the quality of the wood. The grain was fine, old. “Redwood?”
Mr. De Villier nodded, getting up to gather some of the papers to show me more of the surface.
“Expensive for something used so often, no?”
“On the contrary, a man’s desk is a sign of his status, his life’s work. It is the modern equivalent of a throne. A desk isn’t just about utility. It represents all you have built.”
I offered a mumble coupled with a nod as I listened, debating on whether my next question was something I truly wanted to know. “How does one manage to garner such success in such a short amount of time?”
The question came off more aggressively than intended, garnering a sharp look from Mr. De Villier.
“Your company is relatively new. It must be some biblical type of luck to become so large so quickly,” I clarified, pinching myself mentally for not being concise the first time. “Now I am just curious about where it started.”
He sank into his office chair, leaning back to take in the question, or perhaps to be strategic about how he answered. His eye caught on a small frame propped on the desk; you could have assumed it was a photograph of his wife or his children, based on the wistful smile. He pinched it between his fingers and twisted it to face me.
A photograph of him in front of his first factory, here in New York City. The iconicLAGOsignage painted on the doors.
“We began as just a manufacturer of pharmaceuticals,” he said, twisting the photo back so he could admire it again. “We moved into development shortly after.”
