Page 48 of Theo of Golden

Basil’s portrait: a young man in his thirties, tousled shoulder-length hair, thin scraggly beard, attempted mustache.

The face was lean and angular. If congruous to the body on which it rested, he was likely on the lanky side. An impish grin brought playfulness to his countenance. All in all, his features suggested a cross of bohemian and clown, contemplative and jester.

Theo had often seen performers like Basil on sidewalks and subways in Paris and New York. He knew some of them to be gloriously talented, thoughtful, and intelligent, even if unorthodox in their chosen vocation. What was sometimes dismissed as eccentricity in them was, arguably, genius.

Next bestowal: Basil Cannonfield.

CHAPTER 29

Minnette had arrived at her appointment with Theo inquisitively. Kendrick had approached his meeting skeptically.

Ellen’s state of mind when she showed up at her bestowal would be pure conjecture. Nervous? Ceremonious?

Basil Cannonfield was the embodiment of calmness when he strode to the Fedder, as if it were entirely reasonable and predictable that a gift-giving, one-named stranger would summon him by handwritten letter to a fountainside rendezvous on a Thursday night in early May. As he approached Theo, he was smiling with the same boyish grin Asher had captured so precisely in the portrait.

“Mr. Theo, I think I’ve seen you before. You were standing off to the side of me last weekend, two nights in a row.”

“I was indeed.” Theo laughed like a child caught in mischief. “And I enjoyed your performance. I didn’t know you had seen me.”

“Well, Mr. Theo, you’re not my typical audience, so you sort of stood out.”

It was an odd start to a conversation between total strangers. The two men looked squarely at one another, at ease and unguarded.

“Actually, Mr. Theo, in my line of work it’s rare for anybody to stop and listen, so, when somebody does, I can’t help but notice. Thank you, too, for what you put in the envelope. A twenty is a big deal in this kind of work.”

“Well, Mr. Cannonfield, it’s nice to meet you.” Theo put out his hand again as if to do a proper introduction. He nodded at the young man’s guitar. “It looks like you’re on your way to work.”

“It’s Basil — BC is what some of my friends call me. Yep, it’s still a bit early but, yeah, I’m on my way to work. To my office. There aren’t many rewards for being a thirty-two-year-old street musician, but it’s kind of nice being my own boss. I set my hours. Are you in a hurry?”

Theo shook his head. “Not at all. I’m my own boss too. This,” he gestured to the bench, “is my new office.”

They sat close together in the middle of the bench. Basil stretched his arm across the back, as if taking the old man under his wing. There was no sign of reluctance, and one might reasonably have taken them for father and son. Or grandfather and grandson.

Basil kicked off the conversation with the same reasonable question Minnette had asked at the first bestowal.

“So, Mr. Theo, I know what your letter said, but what’s the deal? Why are you doing this? It’s a nice thing to do, but there’s got to be more to it than that.”

Theo gave his well-rehearsed explanation.

The Chalice walls.

The inspiration.

The objective.

Basil listened without interruption, impressed by the story and charmed by the musicality of the old man’s voice — a voice seasoned with an exotic accent, spoken through lips that were bent into the constant suggestion of a grin, and reinforced by eyes that seemed to glisten with their own internal light.

“Basil, you have seen your portrait before, yes?”

“Well, I’ve glanced at it. I know Asher a little bit, and he told me he was going to draw it. When they first hung it on the wall, I went in and took a look, but it felt kind of funny to stand there staring at my own face so I didn’t look at it for long. But I have looked at a lot of the others. Asher is amazing. I can’t understand why he’s not big time yet. I bet he’d be really happy to know you’re doing this. I still don’t get it myself, but it’s pretty cool.”

A light breeze from the south stirred the oak. A leaf, as bright as a canary feather, one that had somehow held onto a limb through the long winter, finally lost its hold and fell into Theo’s lap. He picked it up.

“Ah. A coin of gold.”

“That’s a good idea for a song, Mr. Theo.”

“So, Basil, you do write songs?”