Patek Philippe & Cie
‘Baies Sauvages’ Dress-watch (no. 810’799)
circa 1927
(coral set into chiselled and enamelled gold)
It is early autumn: a small storm brews over the distant tree tops tracing the edges of a field. Still flushed a deep green, the field’s blades of grass ripple together like ominous waves of a lake, its surface peppered with an occasional stunned rabbit caught tracing its way back to its safe, warm burrow. A grunt of thunder echoes from close by; clusters of pale leaves flutter down from an old birch and pirouette in mid-air; and a drifting magpie, suddenly intent on plucking up a shiny something rolling along the ground below, clumsily swoops down and - ‘Ahh! Sacrebleu!’ - nearly collides with the shiny something’s second pursuer: Hercule Poirot.
Stumbling somewhat, and muttering furiously underneath his twitching mustache (something about ‘zat wretched motorcar’ and ‘Hastings’ lack of ze brain cells, grey and all!’), the portly Belgian bends over once more to pick up his runaway button, now stationed against a stubborn pebble. Casting a weary eye up towards the receding bird, Poirot straightens and, slightly more violently than intended, hitches up his askew trousers. He balances himself against his half-umbrella half-walking stick, checking that nothing more has unceremoniously freed itself from his carefully chosen dinner attire (‘Zis wind tries to kill Poirot!’), then sticks his gloved hand into his waistcoat and pulls out a long fine chain, its end adorned with a berry-specked dress-watch identical to this one. With a small click it opens to reveal a handsome face yawning the time of only six minutes to seven, causing Poirot to make an elegant little hop closer in the direction of the manor house beyond the bend. He places the watch back into its silk-lined dwelling and begins to mutter peevishly once more. But this time, his mustache twitches with a smile. One button short and only three minutes lost, 'Poirot has certainly known worse'.
Opening his umbrella, he chuckles and quickens his pace, attempting to resume his stylishly-cut pre-magpie strut along the country road. Stones and stray leaves crunch beneath his soles; rain now splatters the ground with a growing rhythm; and time ticks steadily on alongside Poirot’s hearty little hum.
Opening his umbrella, he chuckles and quickens his pace, attempting to resume his stylishly-cut pre-magpie strut along the country road. Stones and stray leaves crunch beneath his soles; rain now splatters the ground with a growing rhythm; and time ticks steadily on alongside Poirot’s hearty little hum.
