Puzzled. Seraphima Bogomolova
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always wanted to have one just like that…”
He smiles and goes back to the Christmas tree.
Soon, the pyramid of now-opened presents is transferred onto the sofa and the Persian carpet in front of the fireplace becomes littered with colourful sparkling bits of wrapping paper.
“And now, time for a glass of cherry”, announces maman and gets up.
She walks out of the room, leaving me tête – à – tête with Monsieur Moreau. I take the opportunity and venture out with a question:
“Monsieur Moreau, why are you being so kind to me?”
“Well, mon ami”, he replies, “firstly, because you’re the son of Rosalinda, and secondly, I find a great pleasure in pleasing others, if I may say so.”
“Are you saying that you’ve given me this guitar purely for the pleasure of pleasing my Mum?” I ask.
“No, of course not, I was trying to say that…», he begins, but falls silent, as maman walks in followed by a maid, carrying a tray with three cherry glasses on it.
We each pick a glass, filled with golden brown liquor.
“Merry Christmas!” Maman intones, raising her glass.
“Merry Christmas!” We echo in unison with Monsieur Moreau.
Episode 13 – A Snapshot
Monte Carlo, 25 December 2010
I drink up my cherry, take the guitar and leave, releasing Monsieur Moreau and maman from my presence.
Back in my room, I lean the precious instrument against the wall and open my laptop.
I scan new messages, looking for her reply. Not seeing it, I look over the messages again. This time, I go through them one by one, but still no luck. Just to be sure, I also check my spam box. Nothing there either.
My mood sours.
I begin to jump aimlessly from one networking site to another. Landing on my Facebook page, I pause and scribble a sentence about the best Christmas present ever: my Fender guitar. I’ll post a snapshot of it later.
I read comments and updates of my Facebook friends. Then when I’m about to leave the site a photograph tagged with my name catches my eye.
“What the heck?” I stare at it in disbelief.
The photograph pictures me locked in an embrace with that same skinny girl, who begged me for a mobile snapshot at yesterday’s dinner.
The image must have been photoshopped… Below it, her comment is attached.
My beau Luke. Together forever, I read and break out in a cold sweat.
“Is she out of her mind?”
I attempt to raid her Facebook profile, but it is locked for non-friends. Her name doesn’t look familiar, so I Google it.
The girl turns out to be a bikini model, whose photos occasionally end up on the covers of FHM and other mags of that ilk.
“What on earth possessed maman to invite her to the Christmas reception? And I? What was I thinking when I let this bikini girl take a picture of me?”
I groan and drop my head into my hands, tears welling up in my eyes. Grabbing my jacket, I dash out of the room and down the stairs.
The sitting room stands open, the voices of maman and Monsieur Moreau wafting out of it.
Maman’s milky terrier rolls out of the room, rushing towards me, his tail wiggling.
“Mum, I’ll take Domino for a walk”. I shout and sprint out the house, slamming the door shut behind me.
Episode 14 – The Magician
London, 25 December 2010
I wake up, tiptoe to the window and peer out.
The frosty city, painted white, greets my sight. The snow has stopped. The air is clear and still. It seems the Father Frost8 has done his job and retired for the day. I throw a glance at the Edwardian house, checking for my friendly tree in its windows. It is there, flickering ever enthusiastically at me.
After breakfast, I remind Nicolas it is time to open our gifts. Not that there are awfully many, just two, his and mine.
My Mum never got used to celebrating Christmas and true to her Soviet past still prefers to exchange presents on the New Year’s Eve instead of Christmas Day.
“Who will play the Father Frost?” I ask Nicolas.
“I suppose, I ought to gentlemanly pass this role to you,” he replies.
“Very well, then”.
I come to the Christmas tree, pick up a box from the floor and hand it to Nicolas.
“Here is one for you. You know, from the Father Frost… I hope you will like it…”
He takes his present and, carefully unwrapping it, gets out a deck of Renaissance Tarocchi cards. His face lights up. I take it as a sign of him liking my present.
Fanning the deck on the table, he fishes out a card and proclaims:
“Here’s your Arcana for the next year! Or should I say a divinatory significance?”
He turns the face of the card to me. It depicts the Magician in a long red robe, a wand raised towards the heaven in his right hand, the infinity symbol over his head, and an ouroboros9 belt on his waist.
The figure stands amidst flowers. On the table in front of the Magician laid out are a Cup, a Coin, and a Sword.
“So what does this all mean, then?” I ask, quite intrigued.
Nicolas turns the face of the card back to him and studies it thoughtfully for a little while.
“Well, it means that there’s a certain cyclicality in the manifestation and cultivation of your desires. Beware! You have a tendency to overdo on self-reflexivity”.
“Really?” I say with a laugh and get my present from under the Christmas tree.
Last night, when examining it, I had already guessed what it was. The shape of the present hinted at a book.
I rip the wrapping paper off and get out a volume in a velvety cover.
Its title reads: The History of Metaphysics and The Life’s Great Mysteries.
Episode 15 – My Dearest
London, 25 December 2010
“What a wonderful present, thank you so much!” I exclaim, flipping through the book. “I love books and this one seems to be a special one!”
“Oh yes, it looked like it”, nods Nicoals. “I saw it in one of the antique shops and thought you might like it…”
He collects his Tarocchi cards from the table and stands up.
“I’m afraid I must go”, he says.
I take Nicolas to the hall and kiss him good-bye. His bristled cheek gives me a tickle.
He puts on his
Father Frost (Ded Moroz in Russian) – is a Slavic fictional character similar to that of Father Christmas. The literal translation is “Old Man Frost,” often translated as “Grandfather Frost.” Ded Moroz brings presents to children and often delivers them in person on New Year’s Eve.
Ouroboros – from the Greek-