traveled by ship and plane, depending on the destination and the extent of his purchases. His shops in London and New York did excellent business, as his particular taste happened to coincide with the newly wealthy youth cultureâs fascination with Victorian, Gothic, medieval, and Asian antiquities; he had a sure sense of the grotesque. He understood the power of symbolic imagery. He supplied George Harrison with Cambodian stone Buddhas, plied Grace Slick with ebonized mirrors adorned with demons and saints. Bob Dylan was photographed for an album cover sitting on an Art Deco settee belonging to Sax.
He was one of the fascinating people on the periphery of the Scene, someone who knew everyone, peppering his speech with amusing Polari slang heâd picked up in Londonâs theater district. It didnât hurt that Sax had been dressing in Victorian velvet long before it was fashionable. And queer was in.
And at twenty-five, he was only just getting started.
That year, Sax left New York in March, then abruptly departed London in April, when his casual relationship with a gentleman at the British Museum turned serious for the gentleman but not for Sax. He fled to the South of France and his quaint pied-Ã -terre in the Dordogne Valley in the midst of a walnut orchard. There, much to his surprise, he found a young Beat poet heâd met in New York, a friend of Allen Ginsberg, waiting for him. This was back when Sax was virile and promiscuous, of course; he took such developments in stride, in those days. But the poet soon bored him. When the telephone rang, Sax eagerly answered the call, hoping it might be a summons to somewhere else.
âSaxon-Tang,â he said into the mouthpiece. The phone was in the front hall beneath a mirror. Sax checked the Look as he spoke. An open-chested ethnic vest in embroidered wool, a gift from his acquaintanceGivenchy; ruffled linen shirt with bloused sleeves; wine-colored velvet trousers; and black coachmanâs boots. Hair in his eyes and swept back on the neck. Well enough for getting on with, certainly. He escaped coming off as an utter ponce because of his rugged face, which was an accident of birth. Nothing to do with him, who slept on silk and got ten hours of sleep a night when he wasnât on the job. If only he could master walking like a proper man, with his elbow out instead of in! All of this went through his mind in an instant, and then a strangerâs voice spoke on the other end of the line.
âWeâve met,â the voice said, narrowing the field to about half a million people. âI am told you are not averse to adventures.â
The voice was male, deep and dry. A smoker in his fifties, French. The meaning was clear enough, if one knew Sax at all: he could not resist an opportunity for enrichment, regardless of the peril or moral implications. He was known and hated for it amongst his rivals. They thought he had a taste for danger, a rare attribute in the business, and was a scoundrel as well (less rare). Both Sax and his ex-boyfriends knew he was, truth be told, an abject coward. What people took for bravery was in fact avarice so intense it overcame his keen sense of self-preservation. It was only his lust for acquisition that sent him into the literal and figurative jungles of the world.
âWhat sort of adventure?â Sax replied. He ought to make sure this wasnât just a lewd proposition, although he wasnât averse to those, either.
âThereâs a château on the Loire, entirely furnished in the original. Survived the revolution and both wars. Guests, verifiable by letters, cartes de visite , notes, and so forth, include Napoléons une et trois , Marie Antoinette, Cardinal Mazarin, several of the Frondeursââ
âYes, yes, all very interesting,â Sax interrupted, trying to sound as if he had something better to do. In fact, he was salivating.
âThe present owner of the château is a lady of
He was one of the fascinating people on the periphery of the Scene, someone who knew everyone, peppering his speech with amusing Polari slang heâd picked up in Londonâs theater district. It didnât hurt that Sax had been dressing in Victorian velvet long before it was fashionable. And queer was in.
And at twenty-five, he was only just getting started.
That year, Sax left New York in March, then abruptly departed London in April, when his casual relationship with a gentleman at the British Museum turned serious for the gentleman but not for Sax. He fled to the South of France and his quaint pied-Ã -terre in the Dordogne Valley in the midst of a walnut orchard. There, much to his surprise, he found a young Beat poet heâd met in New York, a friend of Allen Ginsberg, waiting for him. This was back when Sax was virile and promiscuous, of course; he took such developments in stride, in those days. But the poet soon bored him. When the telephone rang, Sax eagerly answered the call, hoping it might be a summons to somewhere else.
âSaxon-Tang,â he said into the mouthpiece. The phone was in the front hall beneath a mirror. Sax checked the Look as he spoke. An open-chested ethnic vest in embroidered wool, a gift from his acquaintanceGivenchy; ruffled linen shirt with bloused sleeves; wine-colored velvet trousers; and black coachmanâs boots. Hair in his eyes and swept back on the neck. Well enough for getting on with, certainly. He escaped coming off as an utter ponce because of his rugged face, which was an accident of birth. Nothing to do with him, who slept on silk and got ten hours of sleep a night when he wasnât on the job. If only he could master walking like a proper man, with his elbow out instead of in! All of this went through his mind in an instant, and then a strangerâs voice spoke on the other end of the line.
âWeâve met,â the voice said, narrowing the field to about half a million people. âI am told you are not averse to adventures.â
The voice was male, deep and dry. A smoker in his fifties, French. The meaning was clear enough, if one knew Sax at all: he could not resist an opportunity for enrichment, regardless of the peril or moral implications. He was known and hated for it amongst his rivals. They thought he had a taste for danger, a rare attribute in the business, and was a scoundrel as well (less rare). Both Sax and his ex-boyfriends knew he was, truth be told, an abject coward. What people took for bravery was in fact avarice so intense it overcame his keen sense of self-preservation. It was only his lust for acquisition that sent him into the literal and figurative jungles of the world.
âWhat sort of adventure?â Sax replied. He ought to make sure this wasnât just a lewd proposition, although he wasnât averse to those, either.
âThereâs a château on the Loire, entirely furnished in the original. Survived the revolution and both wars. Guests, verifiable by letters, cartes de visite , notes, and so forth, include Napoléons une et trois , Marie Antoinette, Cardinal Mazarin, several of the Frondeursââ
âYes, yes, all very interesting,â Sax interrupted, trying to sound as if he had something better to do. In fact, he was salivating.
âThe present owner of the château is a lady of
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