Jimmy Fox - Nick Herald 02 - Lineages and Lies (3 page)

But also he was here to talk with Woodrow Bluemantle, mentor and friend, who sat, apparently snoozing, behind the draped presentation table. Seven years ago, Bluemantle had taken a liking to Nick, then a dispirited, disgraced former professor of
English trying to break into a new field, genealogy. It was an improbable friendship, the older man needing a disciple, the younger a tutor, though neither would have said so—the kind of impulsive and profligate friendship that blossoms and fades in a single season. Even if briefly, Nick and Bluemantle thrived in each other’s company, discovering that they shared a faith in humanism, a hatred of hypocrisy, a penchant for perversity, and a passion for genealogical truth.

Bluemantle was not an easy man to know, as friend or enemy, and at last their mutual interests could not withstand their stormy individualities. Yet, Nick had always felt, the friendship had been worth the trouble, and worth a rainy April morning in an uncomfortable chair to revisit. In mischievous moments, he hoped that when he himself reached sixty, twenty years hence, he would be at least half the cantankerous renegade Woodrow Bluemantle was now.

Nick returned his attention to Preston Nowell, who was speaking with practiced ease. He sounded affable and learned, and he looked distinguished in his double-breasted blazer, the badges and ribbons of the society forming an impressive mane for his stag-like neck.

“We of the Society are justly proud of our descent from these intrepid pioneers of the ninth of October, 1731,” Nowell said. “New Style, of course, for all of you thorough researchers out there.”

“What does he mean, ‘new style’?” whispered the young woman three empty seats to Nick’s left.

She must have come in late, while he was daydreaming; he shouldn’t have missed such a stunner. Was it true what he’d read recently in an article about the gradual waning of men’s testosterone levels?

“I’ll tell you later, over a drink,” he whispered back, resolved to prove “male menopause” a myth. She smiled. They returned their attention to Preston Nowell at the lectern.

“And not only important in the history of New Orleans and Louisiana. Some of these names, indeed, can be traced back even further, to the momentous events and personages that have shaped Western Civilization … to the field of Crécy, to the Battle of Hastings, to the Domesday Book, even to the great Charlemagne himself. Our lineage has helped to make this city and this country leaders among their peers.”

“Field of what?” the young woman asked. She was taking copious notes.

Nick’s day was definitely looking up. What a pleasant change from the blue-haired women and their nodding husbands in the rows ahead of him. Retail genealogy usually attracts older folks like these, whose days have begun to collect moss. The children are grown, probably the spouse is dead. They seek new impetus from the lives of ancestors they believe were more adventuresome. But it’s often a one-shot enthusiasm: after the initial thrill, they realize that their ancestors’ lives were similarly undistinguished and disappointing, at least in a tabloid historical sense. The real joy of serious genealogy turns out to be more of an effort—physical, intellectual, and spiritual—that they thought.

This young woman …
Hmm, very nice
. Twenty-five, twenty-seven max, he guessed she was. Fashionably waifish but not compulsively thin, moderate-blonde hair cut loose, straight, and casual. Cognac eyes that had a delightful way of catching oblique light. She wore a cream jacket and pants, the coat having lots of pockets that lent her
the look of a journalist on a desert assignment. Perfume … something expensive and subtle. Class, lots of class. Bites her left index fingernail while she writes. No wedding ring, but half a dozen other whimsical ones. He recognized at least one by Mignon Faget, the famous New Orleans jewelry designer.

Nick leaned toward her across the empty chairs. “Hundred Years’ War, English victory, 1346, edward III, Philip VI, the Black Prince. Sound familiar?”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’d forgotten,” she said unconvincingly, giving up in her search of seminar material. An expensive Waterman poised adorably at her lips, she added, “Thanks.”

A woman with a lilac perm swiveled on them like a tank turret.

“Do y’all
mind
?” she scolded. “My husband and I have come all the way from Birmin-ham to hear the next speakuh. I would thank y’all to carry your convah
sash
un somewhere
else
so people can get their money’s worth.” Her husband slumbered on peacefully beside her, getting
his
money’s worth.

Nick and his historically challenged neighbor made long faces at each other in a charade of contrition.
A good sense of humor, and a beauty, too! We’re going to get along fine… .

At that moment, a heckler bounded up from the second row. Nick, enchanted as he was by his new friend, didn’t register the first few shouted invectives. But now he heard how furious the young man was.

“You son-of-a-bitch! You’re nothing but a con man. This whole thing is a bunch of
bullshit
! All you people, don’t you see? It’s bullshit! You’re being lied to, cheated, just like my grandmother
and all of her people before her!” The man faced the crowd now. He’d lost the thread of his tirade.

He was a balding, kinky-haired fellow, short and stuffed incompletely into his clothes; his stomach threatened to explode through the gaps in his shirt, his fat arms stretched the seams of his coat sleeves, and his bloated neck strained the crazy knot of his splotched tie. Sweating heavily, he swept the crowd with his gaze, his face flushed crimson with anger. Mad eyes paused on Nick.

“It’s got to stop!” he shouted, more incensed than ever. “Somebody’s got to stop it!”

He knocked over the two women sitting in front of him and, like an all-pro linebacker blitzing, he leaped the long, low table supporting Nowell’s lectern, upsetting water pitchers and glasses and lavish flower arrangements and complimentary pencils and notepads. The next moment he had Preston Nowell in a headlock, delivering rapid-fire punches with his free fist.

Nick scrambled out of his chair and down the row, past the blonde, and ran toward the front of the room, arriving just in time to be grazed by the heckler, who was, oddly, airborne. Nowell had already broken from the man’s grip and thrown him away like a sack of garbage.

Two burly security men rushed into the room and hustled the dazed man away.

“Thank you, sir,” Nowell said, producing a comb for his mussed, receding light-brown hair. After cleaning his glasses with a tissue, he read Nick’s nametag. “Mr. Herald. Again, many thanks.”

“You didn’t seem to need much help.”

“Well, I keep rather fit.” He seemed shaken, angry, out of breath, his mind only partly engaged in the conversation. “Gentlemanly sports, as they used to be called. I was also in the military, some years ago.” The next moment he’d collected himself. “Are you interested in joining our group?”

“I’m a professional genealogist,” Nick said. “Just trying to upgrade my knowledge.”

“Oh, I see. Excuse me a moment. Ladies and gentleman, there’s no reason we cannot continue. Please, be seated.” And then to Nick, “Mr. Herald, I do appreciate what you’ve done. Perhaps you’d like to visit the Society library. You would be most welcome.”

“Thanks,” Nick said. “I’ve meant to for some time. Did you know that guy?”

“Oh, most definitely, I regret to say. He has become fixated in an unhealthy way on genealogy.”

“That can happen,” Nick agreed, commiserating to be polite.

“In fact, he has anointed himself with specious grandiose lineages.” Nowell sighed, straightening his tie and coat. “A comic-book character from his own diseased imagination. An unfortunate case… . You will excuse me, Mr. Herald. I would like to continue the program. Remember my invitation. It is genuine.”

Nick returned to his seat.

Nowell cleared his throat several times for order. “Ladies and gentleman, I’ve been accused of giving boring presentations,
but this reaches a new height of criticism.” Chortles and titters. The unease was passing. “Please, if the program becomes too tedious, a simple word or two will suffice.” Louder laughter. The tension seemed gone.

“And so, without further ado, I take the greatest pleasure in introducing the speaker you’ve all come to hear. Some of you have read his many thought-provoking books, or seen him on television. Perhaps you’ve become acquainted with him through his videotaped tutorials. Others will have the thrill of hearing him for the first time. Please join me in welcoming Dr. Woodrow D. Bluemantle, renowned genealogist and now Honorary Scribe of the Society of the Descendants of the
Allégorie
.”

Nick glanced at the program booklet, as the decorous applause filled the room.

Woodrow Demosthenes Bluemantle,
PhD, CG, CALS

Author of
Handbook on the Guise Manuscripts of Kentucky; Bibliography of Early Louisiana Purchase Sources; Pitfalls of King Philip’s War Genealogical Research; Charlatanism in Our Midst; Salt Lake City Shakedown; More Money for Mormons; Ethnic Hustle: Genealogy for the Masses;
numerous articles which have appeared in
The American Genealogist, National Genealogical Society Quarterly
, and other magazines; former syndicated columnist; former Assistant Compiler, Library of Congress; past Invited Lecturer, College of Arms Foundation; past visiting
scholar, Bagwyn College and Samford University; former Fellow of the Am. Society of Genealogists; member of, and former advisor to, many lineage and patriotic societies. He is a Certified Genealogist and a Certified American Lineage Specialist.

They left out his shoe size, Nick thought.
Bluemantle must be a big catch for the Society.

He was familiar with a few of these works by Bluemantle, and a handful not mentioned. None of them would make a good read on the beach; not exactly lucrative barnburners. A bit too recondite for the common taste. Nevertheless, most of his works bristled with a refreshing combative genius. Bluemantle had joyously trashed many undeserved reputations and sloppy theories, slaughtered many a sacred cow. He relished confrontation and wielded a wicked pen. Genealogists of lesser mettle around the country hated and feared him; no one knew where he would pounce next. Judging from the program, it seemed to Nick that there had been nothing very recent in the way of accomplishments from Woodrow D. Bluemantle.

Nick had heard the rumors at recent conferences. Bluemantle’s years of insulting his peers, defiling marriages, and violating female students and clients had caught up with him. He’d been hounded out of Salt Lake City, his base for the past four or five years. He was receiving the collective cold shoulder. Now, he would never join the ranks of the Olympians of professional genealogy, transforming himself into a profit factory through writing and speaking, as he seemed poised once to do.

And here he was, neck-deep in retail genealogy, something Nick knew he despised. An irony bordering on the pathetic.

Now at the microphone, Bluemantle didn’t seem ready. The applause had long since stopped. An awkward silence hung in the air. He donned his Franklin glasses, shuffled his papers, mumbled to himself, and smoothed back his unruly long gray hair several times, his hand finally pausing at the back of his neck as if to pull himself physically into his task. He surveyed the audience, slight confusion, slight irritation twitching across his aquiline face, still striking even though the last few years had manifestly not been kind to him. Women used to swoon for Woodrow Bluemantle. Nick was pretty sure he was drunk.

But not too drunk to tap his deep well of genius and learning for a great presentation. Nick heard echoes of the legendary venom, but also much of the old sharpness of mind, of the unconventionality and freshness that once had distinguished his approach to genealogical scholarship, that once had made even his bitterest enemies envious.

As a former teacher, Nick recognized the often misunderstood element that makes great teachers: joyous arrogance. Egoism so supreme that all self-consciousness and doubt fall away, leaving a pure, exhilarating conduit for the outpourings of a substantial intellect. Though they may despise his ideas, students never forget such a teacher. They might detest him personally, and in all likelihood he will be a monster outside the classroom. Yet, they will cut other classes, not his; for he has accomplished what teachers rarely do: he has awakened in them undying curiosity and the critical spirit. He has opened a door.

In a bit under half an hour Bluemantle surveyed seventeenth- through nineteenth-century Atlantic civilization; delved into the complexities of vital records in the American colonies under a rapid succession of European national flags; speculated on the personal histories of the passengers of the
Allégorie
; explained the royal and commercial settlement projects. It was all no doubt too complex for the thirty or so beginners who filled the lovely little room of the Grande Marchioness Hotel.

Preston Nowell, perfect master of ceremonies, took back the lectern and magnanimously led the clapping, a big grin of gratitude and pride on his boyish face. Nick wondered if he’d played basketball in high school, as he should have. Debate team, student-council president, history club … Nick had him pegged: highly focused at a young age, a miniature adult. As a youngster in Southern California, Nick had known the type—and had avoided them like the plague.

“Splendid!” Nowell said. “really splendid, wasn’t it, ladies and gentlemen? Thank you, Dr. Bluemantle!”

From his chair Bluemantle forced a smile that reminded Nick of the snarling grimace of some mythical beast on a coat of arms.

“I’m sure many in the audience will want to meet Dr. Bluemantle personally. He’ll be standing by for autographs or advice, after a short interval of rest following his exertions, just behind you in our refreshment area. Thank you again, Dr. Bluemantle, for that enlightening presentation.”

Bluemantle stood again to applause, gave a curt, insincere bow, and hurried to the rear of the room.

“Allow me now to say a few words about the Society of the
Allégorie
, as we refer to it in shortened form,” Nowell continued.
“Following in the wonderful tradition of these United States,
we
have endeavored to make candidacy in the Society as democratic as possible. There are quite a few lineage societies that actually discourage new membership. The candidate is subject to artificial rules, which serve only to give complete control to members jealous of their status. We believe, on the contrary, that these are outmoded, elitist practices, just what those brave souls on the
Allégorie
came to this new land to escape.