Luke J. Taylor in Vivian Darkbloom Lives!

"Top floor, lake side." I was taking notes while my friend Tim gave me the hotel recommendation.

"I hope so, I haven't had a vacation since the Johnson Administration." I wasn't exaggerating. I love my job, but it had been five years since I'd taken more than two days off back to back. I wanted to enjoy some of the money I'd been accumulating. Besides, the re-election of Nixon made me yearn to be somewhere with no American politicians. I left my business in the hands of a capable management team and took off for Europe.

I flew to Geneva on BOAC, via London. In first class with me was a group of hippies, with long hair and bare feet. They even tried to play their guitars, but a chorus of protests drowned them out. Other than that the flight was pleasant; the stewardesses were friendly and the food was edible. A car from the hotel met me at the airport.

The driver told me that the Montreux Palace was built in 1835, and it was showing its age, but it had plenty of old world charm, and thatšs what I was in the mood for.

I settled in and unpacked my things. Switzerland was extremely quiet compared to New York. I heard the sound of birds for the first time in years.

It was off season and the dining room the first night was nearly empty. At a table near the window was a middle aged man and a young girl, his daughter I assumed. They looked American to me. The girl was chewing bubblegum while she perused the menu.

There was an older man eating with his wife in the far corner of the room. He was balding and aristocratic in appearance; she was reading a letter to him while he listened and smiled. A popping champagne cork announced the presence of a young couple who I guessed were on their honeymoon. I didn't mind dining alone, it was good to just relax and not have to make conversation.

The hotel's cuisine wasn't fancy, but it was fresh and expertly prepared. I drank half a bottle of wine with dinner and felt pleasantly calm. I knew I'd done the right thing by taking some time off.

That night at eleven thirty I got a call from New York. There was trouble with one of our suppliers. He'd shipped some defective merchandise, and I had to spend about forty-five minutes on the phone straightening things out. I told them to change to a new supply outfit.

The Trans-Atlantic line was echoing and full of static, and I had to yell to be heard, but eventually I got things settled. I was glad theyšd called me, there are some things that only the boss can decide.

As soon as I hung up the phone rang again. It was the concierge. "Pardon me sir, I'm terribly sorry to disturb you.

"Your neighbor in the room next door has asked me if I would call you and request that you attempt to be a little more quiet in the evening. Are you having a meeting?"

"Oh, no, I was just talking to New York on an extremely poor phone line. I must have been yelling. Please apologize to the gentleman for me."

I realized that the walls in the hotel were thinner than I had imagined them to be. I needed to make one more call to the States though, so I turned on the radio and took the phone over to the window while I spoke.

Again as soon as I hung up the concierge rang me. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you again sir, but your neighbor asks if you would please refrain from playing the radio, if it's not too inconvenient."

"Perhaps you would like to move to a different room, sir? The hotel is nearly empty, and I could find you another room."

"No, I like the view from here." I did like the view. That day I had sat in front of the window, looking out across the lake. There was a lovely cloud above the blue water, and in the woods on the far side I could just make out a castle. Cloud, castle, and lake -- it would have made an excellent postcard.

I slept well, although I had a strange dream. In it, I was playing chess on a giant chess board, with human-size chessmen. My opponent in this chess match was Joseph Stalin. Stalin kept trying to cheat, and when I would catch him, instead of apologizing, he would accuse me of cheating.

In the morning I decided to go out to the hotel terrace and read a good book in the sun. I had brought Thomas Mann's Magic Mountain with me, and Switzerland seemed the perfect place to read it. I enjoyed Death in Venice when I read it in college, and was looking forward to spending some pleasant days with Der Zauberberg. The problem with my job was that it left me no time for reading, but I was going to make up for it now.

As I was waiting for the elevator my neighbor appeared. He was taller than he looked in the dining room, and he greeted me courteously.

He made a dismissive motion with his hand, as if to say, don't concern yourself.

The elevator was taking forever. Since silence makes me uncomfortable, I decided to make some conversation. I held up my book so my neighbor could read the title. "I'm looking forward to reading this."

My neighbor looked at the cover. He smiled contemptuously. "I don't know what people see in Thomas Mann. He is very overrated."

His English had an accent that I couldn't place, but it sounded very cultured. I started to think of him as The Critic, like that, with capital letters. The elevator finally arrived. I let The Critic enter first, then said, "But Death In Venice is a masterpiece, surely everyone acknowledges that."

We arrived in the lobby. I wanted to introduce myself to The Critic, but he strode quickly to the receptionist's desk where I heard him speaking in rapid French to the concierge. When he spoke to me his accent wasn't French; that I would have been able to recognize.

Despite The Critic's disparaging remarks I enjoyed my book, and reading Mann's descriptions of the Swiss mountains and then looking up from the page to see the mountains themselves was a pleasure.

At one point I put down my book to smoke a cigarette and was astonished to see my elderly, dignified neighbor, The Critic himself, running around in a meadow about half a mile up the hill from the hotel. I squinted my eyes to see him better. He would walk slowly, slightly bent over, then lunge forward, holding some kind of stick in his hand. Maybe it was a European exercise regimen. He seemed to be in good physical condition, for an older man. I guessed he was in his seventies.

The elderly gentleman's wife came out onto the verandah with a writing case, and sat down at a table not far from my chair. She was strikingly attractive for an older woman, with gray hair and luminous eyes. She began writing.

At one point we both looked up from our tasks simultaneously. I smiled. "Are you a writer?" I asked.

I looked down to my book again and saw that a butterfly had settled on the page. I lifted the book up and tried to dislodge it, but it stayed there as if it was stuck. I blew gently and it finally flew off.

Mrs Critic watched the butterfly as it dipped and fluttered away. "That was a Green-Veined White."

"My husband and I are from St. Petersburg, but we left Russia many years ago." She stood up. "Excuse me, I have to go post these letters before lunch."

Inspired by the Critic, I decided to get some exercise myself. I went for a walk and found an English bookstore in town, which was a pleasant surprise. I bought William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, figuring this would be my month to catch up on my Nobel prize winning authors.

As I was entering the lobby I saw my neighbor at the conciergešs desk again. "Good afternoon," I said.

Showing him my book with a smile, I decided to kid him a little. "You can't have anything bad to say about this, can you?"

He narrowed his eyes. I knew now that his accent was Russian. He had a deep, pleasant voice. "Indeed, I can. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

The critic chuckled. "That may be a bit strong, but I don't respect those corn-cobby chronicles of his. Excuse me."

Again my neighbor began talking to the concierge in French. As I waited for the elevator I heard his wife speaking German to another woman. Perhaps the couple were translators or something.

The next morning I slept in, I was finally beginning to unwind somewhat and recuperate from my jet lag. I went out in the hallway at lunch time and again encountered my neighbors.

They smiled courteously and returned my greeting. I noticed that The Critic had a long handled net beneath his arm.

"Ah, that explains what you were doing in the meadow yesterday. You're a butterfly collector?"

"A pleasant hobby?" He sounded incredulous. "Butterfly hunting is one of the two most intense pleasures known to man."

As he said this his wife looked at him and smiled, which gave me a good idea of what the other pleasure was.

It was delightful to see such an affectionate older couple. I said, in a knowing way, "And it's the only one you can do in public, right?"

The Critic gave me a severe look. "I am not speaking of sex, which is what your leering comment would seem to indicate."

An uncomfortable silence fell over our little group. The elevator was taking forever, I could hear it slowly making its way up the shaft. The old gentlemanšs wife smoothed things over. "My husband was speaking of writing."

The elevator arrived. "Do you mind if I ask you something? I've never met a writer before, and I'm curious. I've heard several writers say that they create a character, and then the character decides what he's going to do. Has that ever happened to you?"

The Critic, or maybe I should say, The Writer, snorted. "That's preposterous. Any writer who has that experience must be very minor or insane." A look of amusement appeared on his face. "My characters are galley slaves."

I was beginning to dislike the man, but to be polite, I said, "That's interesting. I'd like to read one of your books. Do you think they might have one at the English bookstore in town?"

The Writer made a few passes in the air with his butterfly net. "Lolita," he said, before walking out onto the terrace with his wife.

A NOTE: Luke J. Taylor passed away on 16 June 1998. I never met him, but we exchanged a few e-mails. He was always corteous, very friendly. His tribute to Nabokov, full of the writer's bon mots and favorite haunts, now stands as a tribute to himself as well.

luke j. taylor

the lepidopterist