<strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong> Long Island Crazy Hours Color Dreams
CHAPTER TWO: THE ELUSIVE FRANCK MULLER <strong>The</strong> genius is touched by God. He is struck by lightning. He sees angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity. He reaches out and touches them. But like all geniuses, <strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong> is elusive. And for months I chased his trail. But <strong>Franck</strong> was in the wind. Every now and then, he’d come up for air and it would feed back to me. A fortnight ago, <strong>Franck</strong> was spotted playing chess on the beach with Gary Kasparov like in the Fellini film. <strong>The</strong>n <strong>Franck</strong> was reworking the Fibonacci sequence with Bill Gates to derive a mathematical formula for cleaning up the BP oil spill. Last week, <strong>Franck</strong> was seeking out the Four Noble Truths in an ashram in Kathmandu. But where was he now? Several people have asked me my motivation for chronicling the history <strong>of</strong> <strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong>. And to them I’ve tried to explain that, in many ways, it is impossible to have an appreciation <strong>of</strong> the modern horological world without understanding <strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong>’s contribution to it. <strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong> literally made Swiss high watchmaking relevant to a whole new generation. He is our era’s first and most successful watchmaker; he is <strong>of</strong> such a level <strong>of</strong> technical inventiveness and commercial acumen that he can rightly be called the new millennium’s Abraham- Louis Breguet. <strong>The</strong>se were the thoughts careening through my brain as I ploughed steadfastly up a Thai mountain. With each pedal stroke <strong>of</strong> my bike, lactic acid shot through my bio-machinery. So, it was easy to confuse the phone ring with the auditory hallucination that signals the onset <strong>of</strong> heat exhaustion. Collapsing by the side <strong>of</strong> the road, I heard it again. “<strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong> would like to see you tomorrow,” came the voice. “I am in Thailand,” I wheezed. “No problem, <strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong> is also in Thailand.” Now I was convinced that I was lying on the cool sheets <strong>of</strong> a Thai hospital bed beneath the canopy <strong>of</strong> an oxygen tent as my brain played out fantasies on its own stage. “He’s just at his villa at the Amanpuri and would like you to come tomorrow. From your location, it is a short flight and we’ve already prepared your ticket.” <strong>The</strong> omnipotence <strong>of</strong> the <strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong> machine was staggering. I touched my skin to check that a GPS tracking device hadn’t been injected beneath it. But even as I did, I knew how this would play out. When genius summons you, you go. I closed my eyes to enjoy the momentary respite <strong>of</strong> the shadecooled concrete beneath my head. BAPTISM “Welcome to the Amanpuri,” called out the cheery voice <strong>of</strong> the housekeeper. I staggered up the stairs with my bicycle, looking expectantly for a figure in cool white linen and a Panama hat conjuring up alchemic wonders <strong>of</strong> gear wheels and spring bars out <strong>of</strong> thin air. “Where is <strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong>?” I asked as I surveyed the two empty swimming pools and the equally empty house. “<strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong> is at the beach, sir,” came the reply. <strong>The</strong> buggy bounced through the sprawling estate <strong>of</strong> the private residences at Phuket’s famous Amanpuri, the temporary homes <strong>of</strong> the global elite fleeing the icy clutches <strong>of</strong> Europe for days <strong>of</strong> bronzed skin and a state <strong>of</strong> mind best expressed in the pointillist warmth <strong>of</strong> Henri Matisse’s Luxe, Calme et Volupté. Arriving on the beach, I was without a word whisked to a beach chair, provided for with a s<strong>of</strong>t gossamer bathrobe, a beach towel, an ice-cold exotic fruit daiquiri, and a light Bolivar Belicosos. I had everything. Everything, except <strong>Franck</strong>. “Do you know where I might find <strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong>?” I asked the small nut-brown man, turning my chair to face the afternoon sun like a human sundial. “<strong>The</strong>re’s <strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong>!” he exclaimed, waving toward the clear blue sea and the vast gold horizon. For a moment, I thought I’d stumbled upon a disguised Bodhisattva, replying to what he thought was a Zen parable. “Yes,” I replied. “I understand, <strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong> is everywhere and all things. He is…” “No,” the diminutive man cut me <strong>of</strong>f, “he is swimming in the ocean. <strong>The</strong>re…” He gestured far <strong>of</strong>f the coast to a man floating serenely on his back, his face covered by a massive white Panama hat. “<strong>The</strong>re’s <strong>Franck</strong> <strong>Muller</strong>.” I called his name. I waved. I jumped. To no avail. <strong>Franck</strong> was in the wind. He was floating in the vast blue infinity as he saw angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity, reaching out to touch them. I sealed my digital voice recorder in a Ziploc, placed it under my pink commemorative Giro d’Italia hat, and began the long, slow swim toward my
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