Adamsesâ London home thirty-five years ago. It was as if every line on the Presidentâs face had, at the same time, been spared from her own, leaving only a patinated oval of burnished ivory, impassive as a moon, yet thrillingly omnipresent. And it was clear her imponderable power over the man standing before me was still intact after all these years.
I continued evaluating the President, noticing the new glaze of encroaching cataracts in his eyes, remembered how the mane of snow white hair, which now rose in tendrils like a field of corn silk standing on end, had once been the wild, burnished vermilion of the young girl standing just outside the door beside the Mother.
I smoothed my own shiny cranium in honest envy. Once, in the old days before the Revolution, it had been covered with unruly dark curls. Now I compensated for my baldness by cultivating luxuriant sideburns which I combed forward toward my eyebrows and which gave me the distinct allure of an extremely handsome chimpanzee. I was short, not even five feet eight, and slender almost to gauntness. I had the blue-tinged chin of a twice-a-day shaver, and the livid complexion of a man whose profession is good food and wine. Since leaving the Presidentâs service some twenty years ago, I had made a fortune in Washington as a caterer to the political elite of that city. My great success was based on my French accent, which I used as a prop for my impersonation of an aristocrat swept from fortune and power by the famous events of 1789.
I, too, had been not much more than a slave for the first eighteen years of my life. Set to work at seven or eight (I never knew which, for I never knew my exact birthdate), I had been sent by my parents to the Château de Landry, where I learned the menial duties of the lowest lackey, coal boy, and even bed warmer. By nine I had been buggered by the master, his son, and the head groom. By twelve I had bedded the scullery maid and the masterâs illegitimate daughter. My monies, if they could be called that, were sent directly to my father, and so I stole in order to have pocket money of my own. Being attractive to both sexes, I rose in the servant hierarchy of the château to second butler, and it was then I decided to try my luck in a Paris kitchen, only to be told that I had been sold by my prince and could not leave the boundaries of the estate on pain of whipping, prison, or death. I was themerchandise which carried itself, so I promptly stole myself, changed my name, and escaped to Paris. I was taken into the service of Prince Kontousky, who eventually recommended me to the new American ambassador. I quickly made myself indispensable in his service and gained his esteem. I must say I loved my new master and did everything I could to make his life more amenable. His way with servants was new to me, based as it was on the plantation system, and I marveled at our imagined intimacy. He actually conversed with me, even to asking my opinion in certain matters. This quaint American custom soon went to my head, and I vowed undying devotion to such an egalitarian.
The familiar room at Monticello served as both bedroom and study for the man who finally signaled me to sit down. The walls were upholstered in red, and red draperies trimmed with gold tassels hung at the windows and enclosed the bed, which was built inside an alcove in the middle of the room that separated it into a distinct bedroom on one hand and a study on the other. Built into the alcove was a door which opened onto a miniature staircase leading to an entresol over the Presidentâs bed, which led to the second-floor corridor. Three bullâs-eye windows in the passageway looked down upon the scene below. For years, this was how the Mother had left and entered the Presidentâs chambers without being seen by the prying eyes of hordes of servants and visitors. The staircase, which had been invented for her and built in her image, was so minuscule
I continued evaluating the President, noticing the new glaze of encroaching cataracts in his eyes, remembered how the mane of snow white hair, which now rose in tendrils like a field of corn silk standing on end, had once been the wild, burnished vermilion of the young girl standing just outside the door beside the Mother.
I smoothed my own shiny cranium in honest envy. Once, in the old days before the Revolution, it had been covered with unruly dark curls. Now I compensated for my baldness by cultivating luxuriant sideburns which I combed forward toward my eyebrows and which gave me the distinct allure of an extremely handsome chimpanzee. I was short, not even five feet eight, and slender almost to gauntness. I had the blue-tinged chin of a twice-a-day shaver, and the livid complexion of a man whose profession is good food and wine. Since leaving the Presidentâs service some twenty years ago, I had made a fortune in Washington as a caterer to the political elite of that city. My great success was based on my French accent, which I used as a prop for my impersonation of an aristocrat swept from fortune and power by the famous events of 1789.
I, too, had been not much more than a slave for the first eighteen years of my life. Set to work at seven or eight (I never knew which, for I never knew my exact birthdate), I had been sent by my parents to the Château de Landry, where I learned the menial duties of the lowest lackey, coal boy, and even bed warmer. By nine I had been buggered by the master, his son, and the head groom. By twelve I had bedded the scullery maid and the masterâs illegitimate daughter. My monies, if they could be called that, were sent directly to my father, and so I stole in order to have pocket money of my own. Being attractive to both sexes, I rose in the servant hierarchy of the château to second butler, and it was then I decided to try my luck in a Paris kitchen, only to be told that I had been sold by my prince and could not leave the boundaries of the estate on pain of whipping, prison, or death. I was themerchandise which carried itself, so I promptly stole myself, changed my name, and escaped to Paris. I was taken into the service of Prince Kontousky, who eventually recommended me to the new American ambassador. I quickly made myself indispensable in his service and gained his esteem. I must say I loved my new master and did everything I could to make his life more amenable. His way with servants was new to me, based as it was on the plantation system, and I marveled at our imagined intimacy. He actually conversed with me, even to asking my opinion in certain matters. This quaint American custom soon went to my head, and I vowed undying devotion to such an egalitarian.
The familiar room at Monticello served as both bedroom and study for the man who finally signaled me to sit down. The walls were upholstered in red, and red draperies trimmed with gold tassels hung at the windows and enclosed the bed, which was built inside an alcove in the middle of the room that separated it into a distinct bedroom on one hand and a study on the other. Built into the alcove was a door which opened onto a miniature staircase leading to an entresol over the Presidentâs bed, which led to the second-floor corridor. Three bullâs-eye windows in the passageway looked down upon the scene below. For years, this was how the Mother had left and entered the Presidentâs chambers without being seen by the prying eyes of hordes of servants and visitors. The staircase, which had been invented for her and built in her image, was so minuscule
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