As I approached the mansion, I wondered what Amir Nasim thought of his pagan temple, and wondered if he’d draped the statues, or had them removed or destroyed. Talk about a clash of cultures.

I parked the Taurus under the huge, columned portico of Stanhope Hall, and there I sat, thinking that in the nearly vanished world of established custom and protocol – now called the pecking order – John Whitman Sutter would not be going from the gatehouse to the mansion to call on Amir Nasim. And maybe that’s why I’d put this off.

I sat in the car, thinking I should leave. But I took some comfort in the fact that my visit was unannounced, and thus I was asserting my status and privilege, or what was left of it.

On the subject of maintaining one’s dignity while asking a favor of the recently arrived barbarians now living in the villa, I recalled Susan’s favorite line from St. Jerome: The Roman world is falling, yet we hold our heads erect…

I got out of the car, climbed the granite steps between the classical columns, and rang the bell.

A young woman – possibly Iranian – in a black dress opened the door, and I announced myself by stating, “Mr. John Sutter to see Mr. Amir Nasim.”

At this point, the house servant would usually inquire, “Is he expecting you, sir?”

And I would reply, “No, but if it’s not inconvenient, I would like to see him on a personal matter.” Then I’d hand her my calling card, she’d show me into the foyer, disappear, and within a few minutes she’d return with the verdict.

In this case, however, the young woman seemed to have limited English as well as limited training, and she replied, “You wait,” and closed the door on me. So I rang again, she opened the door, and I handed her my card, saying sharply, “Give this to him. Understand?”

She closed the door again, and I stood there. That was my third encounter with an English-challenged person in as many days, and I was becoming annoyed. In fact, I could almost understand Anthony losing his cool with the young Chinese waitress, and his rap on the decline and fall of the Roman Empire. I mean, the Goths, Huns, and Vandals probably learned Latin as they overran the Empire. Veni, vidi, vici. It’s not that difficult.

I waited about five minutes, the door opened again, and a tall, thin gentleman with dark features and a gray suit, holding my card in his hand, said, “Ah, Mr. Sutter. How nice of you to visit.” He extended his hand, we shook, and he asked me to come in.

He said to me, “I was just about to have tea. Will you join me?”

I didn’t want tea, but I needed some of his time, so I guess it was teatime. I replied, “Thank you, I will.”

“Excellent.”

I followed him into the huge granite lower vestibule, which was designed as a sort of transit area for arriving guests. Here the house servants would take the guests’ hats, coats, walking sticks, or whatever, and the guests would be led up one of the great sweeping staircases that rose into the upper foyer. This was a bit more formal than the way we greet houseguests today, such as, “Hey, John, how the hell are you? Throw your coat anywhere. Ready for a beer?”

In any case, Mr. Nasim led me up the right-hand staircase, which was still lit by the original painted cast-iron statues of blackamoors in turbans holding electric torches. I wondered if Mr. Nasim was offended by the statues, which obviously represented his co-religionists as dark-skinned people in a servile capacity.

Thanks to Anthony, the fall of the Roman Empire was still on my mind, and I recalled something I’d read at St. Paul’s – where Roman history was big – about Attila the Hun, who, upon capturing the Roman city of Mediolanum, entered the royal palace and spotted a large fresco depicting an enthroned Roman emperor with defeated Sycthians prostrate at his feet. Unfortunately, Attila mistook the groveling Scythians as Huns, and he was so teed off that he made the Roman governor crawl to him on his hands and knees.

I guess I was concerned about a similar cultural misunderstanding here regarding the blackamoors, and I thought I should say something like, “The Stanhopes were insensitive racists and religious bigots, and these statues always offended me.”

Well, maybe that was a silly thought, and quite frankly, I didn’t give a damn what Amir Nasim thought; he’d had ample time to get rid of the statues if he’d wanted to.

Anyway, we chatted about the weather until we reached the top of the stairs and passed into the upper foyer, where in days gone by the master and his wife would greet their now coatless, hatless, and probably winded guests.

From the upper foyer, I followed Mr. Nasim to the right, down a long, wide gallery, which I knew led to the library.

Mr. Nasim inquired, “How long has it been since you have been here?”

Obviously, he knew something of my personal history. I replied, “Ten years.”

“Ah, yes, it is nine years since I purchased this home.”

I recalled that the government, which had seized the property from Frank Bellarosa, had sold Stanhope Hall and most of the acreage to a Japanese corporation, for use as a retreat for strung-out Nipponese executives, but the deal had fallen through, and I’d heard from Edward that an Iranian had purchased the property a year after I’d left. I should tell Mr. Nasim that Anthony Bellarosa wanted his father’s property back.

He asked me, “You have good memories here?”

Not really. But I replied, “Yes.” In fact, Susan and I had been married in Stanhope Hall, while William and Charlotte were still living here, and Cheap Willie had given us – or his daughter – an outdoor reception, to which he’d invited about three hundred of his closest and dearest friends, family, and business associates, as well as a few people I knew. Of course, with William footing the bill, the food and booze ran out early, and the orchestra packed it in at 10:00 P.M. sharp, and by 10:30 the remaining guests were scavenging for wine dregs and cheese rinds.

That was not my first clue that my new father-in-law was a master of the bargain-basement grand gesture, nor was it the last. In the end, he’d gotten back the only thing he ever gave me: his daughter.

Mr. Nasim informed me, “We are still in the process of decorating.”

“It takes a while.”

“Yes.” He added, “My wife… the women take their time with decisions.”

“Really?” I mean, nine years isn’t that long, Amir. You’re married. Learn to be patient.

In fact, the wide gallery and the adjoining rooms were almost devoid of furniture and totally devoid of paintings or decorations. There were, however, a scattering of carpets on the floor – undoubtedly Persian – and ironically, this is what covered most of the floors of Stanhope Hall when William and Charlotte lived here.

The last time I’d seen this place, it was unfurnished, except for a few odds and ends here and there, plus there were a few rooms that Susan and I used to store sporting equipment, awful gifts, and Susan’s childhood furniture. Also, I recalled there had been steamer trunks filled with clothing belonging to long-dead Stanhopes of both sexes. These outfits spanned the decades of the twentieth century, and Susan and I would sometimes dress in period costume – we both preferred the Roaring Twenties – and act silly.

Mr. Nasim said to me, “I suppose you know the history of this house.”

His English was good, learned from someone who spoke with a British accent. I replied, “I do.”

“Good. You must tell me the history.”

“If you wish.”

We reached the library, and Mr. Nasim stood aside and ushered me through the double doors.

The paneling and bookshelves were as I remembered, a rich pecan wood, but the new furniture was, unfortunately, a really bad French style, white and gold, the sort of thing you’d see in the Sunday magazine ads for a hundred dollars down and low monthly payments.