Professor Peter Langerhans (1958)
Yes, it’s true…. Garbo was a student in my art history classes at the University. It is also true that he became a willing companion to me at various art exhibitions as well as dinner parties I threw for his benefit to (shall we say) expose him to elements of Santa Barbara Society. I felt these people ,the Kelloggs, the Pillsburys the Wright Ludgingtons could benefit his career. And it is true that some sort of laceration to his thigh occurred due to a temporary loss of muscular control on my part. But the wound was not due to any vicious attack or anger… a knife was not involved nor a blade of any kind. But let me begin at the well-worn and oft used beginning:
Long story short: Garbo, was introduced to me before he ever arrived as a student. An old friend who taught math at his high school brought him up to show him the campus, and afterward brought him over to my house. Apparently Garbo had intimated an interest in art. Of course Garbo’s idea of art at that time was Walt Disney and Mad Comics. But I played along and pretended it was all the same since I liked the lad and what would it hurt to tell him that if he came to UCSB I would be happy to be his faculty advisor and show him the ropes so to speak.
Well for two years he and I became quite close (so I thought) but I found out that he and I had different interpretations of our ‘relationship’. Who knows the workings of a young mind that is being tempted by things and manners to which he is not accustomed. I thought he valued my philosophy and the stories of my travels to the great art capitols of the world. Sipping my good sherry on Sundays, sometimes passing out, while I cooed to the tune of Fra Fillipo Lippi or Ghirlandio after serving a radiant meal of poached tongue or a succulent rack of lamb.
It seems that our Mr. Garbo was simply filling his gullet and swigging glass after glass of Mazanilla Papirusa, always curling the pinky of his long tapered fingers. Yes his hands were the hands of a pianist. Softer than one could imagine on a strapping young athlete. Indeed Janos told me of losing a decathlon to Rafer Johnson at the 1955 Pasadena Games.
But now, or I should say, on that fateful night he said he was off to Europe with some old high school buddy and all because his fucking drawing teacher told him he would be an artist and that he should go see the great masters.
Goodbye said he and thanks for the good times. That was it? Thanks for the good times! Okay, I was cool … not going to let the little fucker get the best of me. Ease out I said to myself, don’t make a scene. Play it as if you’re glad. Oh said I, let me give you my address and be sure to send me a postcard after you’ve seen the Giottos. I reached for my Montblank and unscrewed the top, whereupon I must have lost coordination or some sort of ataxia came upon me, and the next thing I know there is a gaping wound in his thigh.
