Angel of Death. Christian Russell
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put in our tea back in Korea? I guess it’s already started to take its effect on me.” He gave his colleague a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Go get them, buddy!”
The brave sixty-five-year-old birthday boy stood up and made for the group of starlets. They surrounded him affectionately hanging on every word he said.
Mark and Dorothy joined them. The man noticed that the young women were all very beautiful and elegant. It was obvious the success of the party was due to the perfect combination of fine liquor and beautiful women. The younger daughter managed, not without some difficulty, to pull her father from the group of starlets.
“Come on, dad, how could you? Even your rheumatism is older than them.”
“But that was completely innocent. I was just giving them some stage directions.”
“Cut it, dad!” the daughter laughed. “You claim you’re harmless but always seem to find time for one last romance.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Dorrie,” the old man said seriously. “To me, my last romance will always be the memory of my first one.”
The young woman was moved realizing he was thinking of her mother. She pointed to the agent. “Let me introduce Mark Du Nancy to you, the man who saved my uncle and me.”
Ralf Wheller shook his hand smiling warmly. “Nice to meet you. I owe it to you twice, Mr. Du Nancy.” Then he cordially took them both by the shoulders. “You see, there are several special traffic rules for the last part of the road. Sometimes it feels good to break them, though. Old age is nothing but an anesthetic that nature’s chosen to prepare us for death. And, like any anesthetic, it may work or it may not. Tragedy begins when it doesn’t, because old age would be bearable if only the soul grew old with the body.”
“Your body’s holding up pretty well,” Mark said. And it wasn’t entirely groundless for Ralf Wheller looked, indeed, five or six years younger. “You don’t show your age at all.”
“Of course, I don’t. And you know why? Because everything that’s old about me is falling off: my hair, my teeth,” the actor laughed. “Anyway, at my age, you can’t complain about the diseases that get a fair share of your body.”
He waved to a waiter who was carrying a tray full of champagne glasses and offered each of them one and took one for himself. They clinked glasses.
“To saviors and their courage,” the old man said.
“To talent and beauty,” Mark replied looking at the actress meaningfully.
“Dorothy, why don’t you show our guest around?” Ralf Wheller asked.
It was the second request of that kind coming from her family so the young woman decided to comply with it and took Mark by the arm. He put down the glass he had never tasted from.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she said pointing to the corner where the staircase was. While heading that way, Mark heard her swearing. “Damn! He saw me!”
Mark looked around to see where the danger was coming from. He saw a tall, elegant man who was waving to them to wait for him. As he was drawing near, the agent asked her. “Who’s that?”
“A pompous ass. Sort of rich stupid suitor who revels in other people’s pain.”
The man was finally standing in front of them. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Dorothy?” he asked emphatically.
“Mark Du Nancy, George Sellers,” the actress tried to cut the scene short.
“George James Sellers Jr. I have a degree in law, one in economics, and one in philosophy. So you are the hero of the night. Tell me, are they paying you by the pound?” he asked defiantly.
Mark looked into his eyes not knowing how to react.
“I hope you haven’t shot anyone today,” Sellers added.
“No. But the day isn’t over yet.”
“We’ve got to go, George,” Dorothy said firmly, pulling her rescuer away.
“Look, Mark,” the multi-degree guy sounded very cheerful all of a sudden. “I hear you used to be a great athlete. I’m into sports myself. I play tennis, that is. I have my own tennis court in Central Park. I’ve played a lot with my friend Todd Martin. Last week I even managed to take him two games. If I keep it up like that I might take him a whole set next year. What do you say, are you in for a game with me?”
“I don’t think I’m up to it. I’ve played five times against our department champion and only managed to win one match.”
“Oh,” Sellers grinned defiantly. “I see.”
The agent and the actress started for the staircase. That grin bothered Mark, though. He turned to George and said. “On the other hand, me and Todd are quite even.”
“Really?” the man stared at him in surprise.
“Yeah. 0-0,” Mark added while Dorothy burst into laughter.
“Don’t mind him,” she said. “The Wizard of Oz once told him, ‘I can’t give you any brains but I’ll give you several degrees instead.’” After they took a few steps the woman asked Mark. “What would you like to do now? Shall we dance here or go upstairs to see more of the house?”
“I’m warning you: I’ve got two left legs. I couldn’t dance if my life depended on it.”
“Never mind, I’ll teach you. Not here and not now. But I’ll make a perfect dancer out of you, to be sure.”
Mark smiled distrustfully. “Then you’ll show me around.”
They went up. When they reached the corridor Mark looked around in amazement. Never, not even in the movies, had he seen such luxury. He was a bit of an art expert. He would sometimes attend the auctions at Christie’s and pretend he had just bought this thing or that. But he had never seen so many valuable things in one place: original paintings by Goya, Poussin, and Toulouse-Lautrec, even a Picasso; fine, huge hand-made carpets from Smyrna and Bassorah; here and there a huge Venetian mirror with Murrano glass ornaments. On the Louis XIV mahogany tables were various precious items: Livorno porcelain and Chinese vases. Somewhere on the wall he also saw a panoply of antique Moore revolvers. The woman sensed his perplexity and was slightly embarrassed. He took a nicely framed picture from one of the tables: Ralf Wheller in a ski outfit next to a twelve-year-old girl.
“That’s me and my father on a ski trip to Aspen,” Dorothy said.
The little girl’s outfit and her expensive boots reminded Mark of his own childhood, particularly the harsh winters in La Crosse. He was the youngest of farmer Alan Du Nancy’s six children and their family was one of the poorest in the county. By the time the clothes and shoes were passed on to him they had already had three or four previous owners and the wear and tear was such that it turned the long way to school into a nightmare every time it snowed. He was wrapped in thought looking at the picture. The actress didn’t understand his sadness but thought it was time to get him out of it.
“Let me show you the terrace! The view is lovely.”
Mark went to the massive French window. Next to it he noticed a painting that didn’t look very valuable. It was only a watercolor showing a young lady in a grundge outfit. The woman resembled Dorothy amazingly well. He stopped before it.
“Is that you?” he asked.
Dorothy kept silent. After a while she answered. “No, that’s my mother.”
The man noticed she had tears in her eyes. “Tell me about her,” Mark said being aware that it might distress her even more.
“My mother came from a rich family. She was a Van Hall. She was a kind of black sheep of the family, though, because of her nonconformism. But that was what my father liked about her. She was one of those beautiful lunatics of the ’60s and ’70s: the Woodstock generation.