Christine's entry:
‘The Baron’. 1916-2002. Anatole (Tony) von der M___.
He lacked the castle and the servants… and the riches, but he was a true baron, a Russian who’d fled when the Bolsheviks turned nasty in 1917. He was barely two years old.
Slim and medium-height. A fastidious dresser with knife-sharp trouser creases, silk shirts and Italian shoes; ties, socks, cravats and breast-pocket handkerchiefs meticulously matched. Ginger hair brushed sleekly back at a slightly rakish angle. His movements brisk and authoritative with a nervous energy.
Nose aquiline; mouth sensitive with one corner suggesting an ironic smile. Grey eyes and the most awe-inspiring, bushy, Slavonic eyebrows which he manoeuvred individually to dramatic effect: the visible manifestation of his quick wit, his sharp intelligence and his breeding.
Voice a melodious tenor; upper-class academic with one carefully nurtured peculiarity: the rolled, guttural R’s, a reminder of his continental origins.
He shone at parties. If I joined in the conversation, the Baron would turn towards me, his head at an angle and one eyebrow raised quizzically. And I’d blush deeply, wondering what sexual innuendo he’d honoured my insipid remark with.
His imperious manner resurrected dormant, feudal reverence in the lower classes. At restaurants he’d summarily send back his steak until a tender version arrived with juices the required shade of pink, while the cook, the manager and the waiters scraped and simpered in unison. The Baron’s eyebrows gathered in concentration as he made an elegant incision in the meat and lifted the morsel to be sampled while they held their common breath. They let it out with grateful relief when the Baron finally raised his eyebrows and smiled benignly at the cook.
“My compliments to the chef,” he’d say, “this one is cooked coRRRectly.”
The cheque he wrote out with a flourish often bounced. But the Baron’s aristocratic fame was above such banalities.
Tara's entry:
The Statue
I've always wondered why people call you "The Statue". I've heard the rumours of course, but now, as I stand here looking at you for the first time in the flesh, everything becomes clearer.
Obviously, the first thing I notice is your height. Trying not to stare, I divert my gaze to your face. Your pale blue eyes stare at me, seemingly devoid of emotion. My confidence wavers and I look at the floor, only to be confronted with your feet. I've never seen such long, pointy feet before, and for a moment, I'm mesmerised by them.
Forcing myself to look up again, I notice your slender, slightly hooked nose - and your small, unsmiling mouth melts my heart.
I watch in amazement as you strut quietly past me. It's only when I see you being lifted onto the chaise-longue in the centre of the room, that I understand. You're tonight's model.
You sit there, naked and serene. I realise this won't be easy. Where do I start? Lifting my paintbrush, I begin trying to capture the interesting creases around your eyes, and the way the light dances on your wild, silver hair.
The defiant slant of your chin gives you an almost regal look, and your slender body seems to go on forever. I'm not sure your legs will fit on the page. But it's those clear, pale eyes that enchant me.
The brows framing them are dark and arched. A stark contrast against your fair skin. With that figure and your chiselled cheekbones, you resemble a perfect, silvery statue.
Getting into my stride, my brush flies gleefully across the page. Then, suddenly, I notice that you're not alone. Lying under a nearby table, is a dog. It takes me only a second to realise it's a guide dog.
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