Puzzled. Seraphima Bogomolova
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good toasts in store?” He asks, pouring the wine into our glasses.
I think for a second then say:
“Let’s drink to sparkles in the eyes, to soft vibrations of the heart, to gentle kisses in the moonlight, to tight embraces of the loved ones. In other words, to love, the one that is heavenly, but true and real.”
“Beautifully said, I have nothing to add”.
We raise our glasses and bring them together. Clinking, they meet in a crystal kiss.
Episode 7 – An Old Friend
Monte Carlo, 24 December 2010
The room’s now filled up, an invitation to dinner is announced.
The red dots of the cigars flickering and the diamonds sparkling, laughing and chatting, maman’s invitees start flowing into the dining room.
I find my place and sit down.
Thanks God, this year the honour of being seated next to the Von Witter daughters has been passed to somebody else.
I glance to my right, where an elderly gentleman, cigar in his mouth, sits. I look discreetly at his card. It says: Jacques Moreau.
He smiles and gives me a slight nod.
The chair on my left is still unoccupied.
I hope that it’ll stay this way for the rest of the dinner, but out of curiosity check the name of the missing guest on the card. It reads: Angela Du Monde.
“May I introduce myself?” I hear the elderly gentleman on my right addressing me. Not waiting for my reply, he extends his hand to me and adds, “Jacques Moreau”.
“Nice to meet you, Monsieur Moreau.” I reply, taking his hand.
He gives me a firm handshake.
“And you must be Luke Andrew Allen, the son of our marvellous hostess.” He says.
“That’s right. But how do you know?” I ask, surprised.
“Well, firstly, your name’s written on your card, and secondly, you’re an exact copy of your mother, whom I’ve had the great pleasure of knowing for years.”
“How bizarre… She’s never told me about you.” I mutter.
“Nothing’s bizarre about it, mon ami6. There are certain things that parents prefer to keep to themselves.”
“Like what?”
“Like the fact of our friendship.” He replies.
“But this can be regarded as a lie!” I cry out.
“Yes, perhaps. But permit me to note that your mother, like you or anyone else, is entitled to her own private life.”
“Oh yes, but why then, entitled as she is, she nonetheless has seated you and me together?” I say, annoyed.
“Well, perhaps, because she wanted two of us to finally meet each other.” He replies and takes a deep draw on his cigar.
Bottles in hands, waiters begin their rounds, pouring red and white wine. The sound of exited chatter, laughter and clinking of crystal glasses flows across the room.
“Mon ami,” says Monsieur Moreau, raising his glass, “May I suggest a toast?”
“Sure.” I nod.
“Let’s drink to the essence of all essences without which our life would lack true meaning.”
“And what would that very essence of all essences be?” I enquire.
“And that, my dear boy, would be love.”
Episode 8 – Perplexed
London, 24 December 2010
Savouring another piece of pudding, I think how lucky I am. If it were not for Nicolas, I’d sit here all alone, stuffing myself with the Mum’s cook’s culinary work of art.
I hear the deep resonating sounds of the church clock striking midnight.
“It’s late. Fancy staying over?” I say to Nicolas, stretched out on the sofa before the fireplace.
He nods.
I make his bed in a guest room, hand him a towel and, wishing him goodnight, go back to the living room. Blowing candles off, I come to the window and look out.
The Edwardian house is now enveloped in darkness. The inhabitants must have gone to bed already. In the dimness of the room, broken by the glinting of the Christmas lights, I peer out into the night and think of him again.
It’s been two years since our date, if you can call it one. But I’m still perplexed in regards to why he didn’t show up for our meeting. After all, it was he who’d asked for it.
The answer must be dead simple, staring me in the eye. But with so much time spent trying to figure it out, I still don’t see it.
After the date, he’d written a rather strange email to me, mentioning The Number of The Beast, and then disappeared into nowhere as quickly as he appeared from somewhere.
What does this number have to do with our date anyway? Suppose, it refers to some biblical apocalyptical beast. Suppose, it even identifies the Antichrist, and what?
Anyway, why does it still bother me so much?
Perhaps I should just push this episode into the backstreet of my memory and forget all about it.
The church clock strikes the hour.
The midnight mess over, devoted parishioners are flocking out of the church onto the street.
I watch snowflakes dance in the dim light of London street-lamps for a little while then come to my Christmas tree.
I take the present Nicolas has brought me and look at it, tempting myself. I could open it right now. The Christmas Day has already arrived. But then I change my mind.
What am I? A kid?
Surely, I can wait till breakfast. I put the present back under the tree and walk out of the room.
Episode 9 – The possible and the impossible
Monte Carlo, 24 December 2010
The dinner is in full swing now, but the place of Angela Du Monde remains unoccupied.
An odd thought flashes across my mind: what if we are somehow connected?
I glance at her chair again.
But what is there to be connected to? The chair? Or the black card with her name embossed in gold?
Besides, I’ve never seen her in my life and for that matter it’s highly unlikely will see her in the future. And yet, her absence seems to hold some power over me.
I must have drunk too much. Or it must have been the toast about love that Monsieur Moreau intrigued me with. Either way, I keep on thinking of possible what if scenarios.
“My dear Luke, you appear to be tormented by something.” I hear Monsieur Moreau addressing me.
“No, why?” I utter, trying to focus on my dessert, a crème brulee7 that I can’t stand.
“Forgive