Her phone rang. “Rebel Pots,” Reba answered.
“Li-Li Feng, please.”
“John Schatz?”
A pause. “Hello, Reba.”
The potter let out a long sigh. “John, I told you to leave my assistants alone.”
“You have more than one?”
“One is enough.”
“I should say.” Schatz chuckled.
“Keep your distance, John. She’s just a girl. She doesn’t realize what men are like.”
“What are men like?”
“Like men.”
Schatz was more than amused. He was delighted.
“Honestly Reba, do you really think I have anything but a professional interest in Li-Li? You would be too young for me, let alone Li-Li.”
“Exactly. I have to go.”
“That’s a shame.” He spoke quickly. “Because I wanted to bring over a friend of mine. An expert in fine tile. She’s here with a delegation from Almaragorda, Portugal. They are looking for tile manufacturers.”
“Tile manufacturers?” she asked. “But we hand throw everything.”
“They want artists, not machines. They’re from Almaragorda, Portugal. I told them all about you.”
One could not simply ignore Schatz. He had an infuriating way of bringing in business.
“Who am I meeting?”
“Her name is Dr. Emily Cardoza,” Schatz said. “From Almaragorda, Port…”
“Yes, I heard you.” Reba scheduled an appointment for the next afternoon. She and Li-Li cleaned and organized the studio. They put out tile samples, placed labeling cards, and arranged pink roses in a large white bowl. A bottle of Muros Antigos chilled in a stainless bucket.
Schatz arrived alone. He carried a wide, heavy black book. “Where is your buyer? Reba asked. Li-Li stood behind her, dressed in a beret and canvas overalls. A very proper artiste, Schatz thought. She peeked over Reba’s shoulder.
He cleared his throat. “Dr. Cordoza,” he said. “Has been detained. She apologizes profusely.”
“Detained?”
“She is hosting an impromptu salon. In the meantime, I’ve brought her portfolio.” He placed the book on a work table. Reba leaned over.
“That book’s from the Hennepin County Library.”
Schatz leaned close. “So it is. Well, you can’t expect her to drag a portfolio all the way from Portugal.”
One rather could. “When can we see her?”
“She’ll come Thursday.” Schatz said. “Friday at the latest. I’ve had my Mercedes detailed, and I’m showing her around the city.”
This was possibly true. Schatz had lost his own car years ago, but was known to rent when circumstances presented themselves. “In the meantime, the professor would like some tile samples, if you can spare them.”
Reba had Li-Li fill a box with various clay tiles. John Schatz hung around her studio, chatting about Portugal and Italy, perusing her shelves in his usual way, until Reba pushed him out the door.
That Friday he called. “We’ll be late. We’re having a late breakfast at La Belle Vie with the Governor.”
“Who’s we?” Reba asked.
“Dr. Cardoza and a delegation from the Portuguese Trade Commission.”
“Very impressive, John.”
“Can Dr. Cardoza come at four today?” Reba reluctantly made the appointment.
Schatz showed up once more, alone. He wore an Armani suit, very European, and held a single clay tile. “The delegation left La Belle Vie and went directly to the governor’s mansion.”
“How unfortunate,” Reba said.
“Not at all. I’ve got a sample she likes. Get me a competitive price on fifty thousand. You may as well draw up a purchase agreement.”
“Already?”
“The Portuguese Tile Commission gives full authority to Dr. Cordoza. This comes from the top.”
The top of your head, thought Reba. She went to work on the quote, and emailed Schatz that night. Then she forgot about Dr. Cordoza, the trade delegation, meetings, lunches, cars, Portugal, and John Schatz.
Two weeks later Li-Li Feng carried a sketchbook past her desk. She was dressed in a beret and high heels. “I’ll be back after lunch,” she said.
Reba glanced up. She knew the look on Li-Li’s face. The look of guilt. “Hold it right there, young lady.”
Li-Li spilled the beans. Schatz had cajoled her into meeting him. “Dr. Cordoza will be there,” she said, helplessly. “She wants to meet a student.”
“Darling, I hate to tell you this. There is no Dr. Cardoza.”
“He said you would say that.”
“Stay here.”
Reba walked into La Belle Vie, ignoring the maître d’. Schatz sat alone, of course, at a white linen table. Delighted to see her, he made her take a chair, and didn’t even ask about Li-Li. To his credit, he can be wonderful company. They had a leisurely lunch with white wine, paté, endive salad, and sea bass. Schatz introduced friends, business people who paused at their table. Was this the plan all along? One couldn’t know.
He may not know himself. But if Schatz was going nowhere, he was going nowhere with style. La Belle Vie. The Good Life. It might as well be his motto.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com