graduating Harvard in the late 70’s with a degree in art history, Hugo Sands found employment as a cataloguing assistant at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
At 23, the future esoteric publisher was already a man of the world, with several summers of European travel and a decade of sexual experience behind him. Longer if you counted that he had been playing “doctor” and “house” with little girls since kindergarten.
And now that he carried the additional éclat of a Harvard degree, his school ring was proving more potent than the signet of Castle Roissy in compelling young women to shed their outer garments and submit to his whims.
“It works with everyone but that one, the only one I want,” Hugo complained to his companion, Van Milburn, of a tall, slim, young redhead sitting on a ledge by herself across the museum garden, with a book of Diane Arbus photos.
“Garda’s not the type to be impressed by Ivy League degrees,” Van informed Hugo on good authority, for the older man was a designer in the catalog department where Garda Hudson worked as a copy editor and knew her fairly well.
Van was 33, with refined features; short cropped, salt and pepper hair and a trimmed beard in the manner of a Greek coin. He and Hugo had become great friends due to their mutual interest in art history, but Van was just as happy to discuss the virtues of Garda, of whom he was also extremely fond.
“Do you know what makes her tick, Van?”
“I know that beneath that gauzy shift lurks a hardcore punk who spent the summer of ‘76 in London and owns a latex corset.”
“That is so arousing to me!”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Would you? I’d love to get involved with a girl who isn’t P.C.,” sighed Hugo.
“Why don’t you ask her out?”
“I have done. She keeps saying no.”
“Maybe it’s the ponytail,” said Van, biting into a baguette sandwich.
“Garda dislikes long hair on men?” Hugo asked in surprise. His straight, sandy blond hair was the proper length for the era, complimentary to his features and had contributed to his general appeal for young women since high school.
“Never trust a hippie is one of her favorite expressions,” Van helpfully revealed, amused to observe Hugo clutching his hair in a paranoid fashion.
“So, she’s anti-love and peace?”
“She’s a punk. Of course she’s anti-love.”
“Anti-drug?”
“No, actually. Now that you mention it, she was asking me where she could get some weed just today.”
“Oh really? What did you say?”
“I said I’d find out.”
“Are you going to?”
“I can’t just now. My guy’s out of town.”
“Tell her I can help her. At once!”
Around three that afternoon, when Hugo was alone in one of the archive rooms checking catalog annotations against hand written item descriptions of 18th century cameos, Garda entered the cool, quiet area on her dainty espadrilles with the pretty ribbon ties around each slim ankle. She brought the smell of frangipani with her and her creamy skin appeared to advantage under the milky globe lights.
“Hi,” she said uncomfortably and quickly, as one with business to conduct. “Van said I could see you about something.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
"So, when?” Garda seemed perfectly desperate.
“Uh, whenever you like,” Hugo replied agreeably, then drew a lovely cocoa and cream broach from the drawer and showed it to her. “Isn’t this one pretty?”
“Beautiful,” Garda appreciated the cameo in moderation, then returned to the more important subject with impatience. “You mean, tonight might be a possibility?”
“Definitely. You can count on it.”
“Great! So, should I come to you?”
“Please!” Hugo couldn’t help but laugh.
“What? Are you teasing me? Is this for real?”
“Of course I’m not teasing you. Look, here’s my address,” Hugo wrote it on a tiny pad in his neat, architectural hand. “It’s right up the block from the Charles Street Steak House.”
“You’re kidding! I live on Beacon Hill too!”
“Where?”
“Myrtle Street. Two blocks up and one over from you.”
“That is convenient. Would you prefer I come to you?”
“No, that’s okay. What time?”
“Seven?” Hugo named the earliest time that would seem reasonable.
“That would be perfect. If I had to face another weekend in Boston straight I would have gone mad.”
Hugo smiled as she exited, murmuring to himself, “Little drug slut.” Then for luck he kissed the 18th century beauty on the broach before putting it back in its velvet slot. Like Casanova, he believed Venus to be his ruling planet and saw his life stretch before him as a series of romantic adventures with only the most interesting of women. This Garda Hudson counted. She was his first real challenge, who stood proof against all his usual charms and required extraordinary magicks to captivate.
Let the end justify the means, Hugo decided, stopping in at the barbershop on the way home.
Garda climbed the staircase to Hugo’s second floor flat above the Italian grocery promptly at seven. He had seen her from his window and opened the door.
“My god, you cut your hair?” she exclaimed, as he ushered her into the small parlor whose dominant feature was an old, brick fireplace, with logs in readiness, should the perfectly mild October evening turn chilly. “How did you find this place? This building looks two hundred years old. And you have kittens!” Garda fell to her knees before the basket beside the hearth.
“I adopted them last week,” Hugo said, handing her an exceedingly thick joint and lighting it for her.
“Kittens,” she murmured, tentatively picking up the grey one, then the black one. “You have this whole place to yourself?” she asked, touring the tiny apartment with the joint in one hand and the grey cat in other.
“You don’t live alone?” he asked.
“Yes, but I can barely afford it and I’m sure my place is cheaper than this one.”
“I have a second job translating French for an art journal,” he revealed.
“Why
