“That’s Martin Staehli, born and raised here,” said the boy.
The artist was standing outside the châlet watching the procession wind its way around the path and out of sight.
“Could I rest here awhile? I’ve walked from Tarasp.”
“I shall have great pleasure.” He spoke English hesitatingly with a Swiss accent.
They entered a very large room, the light streaming in from all sides.
“This is my studio. My home is a little distance away in our family châlet. It is old; I will show it to you if you are interested in antiques.” He went to the door and called.
He looked keenly at the boy.
“You are not a European?”
“No, I am an American.” He raised his head with a gesture of pride which became him well. “My name is Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.”