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Chapter Two

‘It’s just a drop in the ocean

A change in the weather

I was praying that you and I might end up together.’

– Ron Pope, A Drop in The Ocean

Episode 11 – Santa Claus

Monte Carlo, France, 25 December

The curtains undrawn, the bright sunlight is flooding into my room. Stretching, I throw the blanket on to the floor and spring off the bed. In the bathroom, my sleepy face, the hair’s sticky and dishevelled, glances back at me from the mirror. I turn away and, pulling my clothes off, step under the shower.

In the dining room, maman, as fresh as daisy, sits at the head of a large walnut table, polished to a gleaming shine. On her right, Monsieur Moreau is seated. It seems he has never left the house.

‘Good morning, darling.’ maman greets me, a wide smile attached to her lips.

‘Good morning.’ I reply and seat myself opposite Monsieur Moreau.

My appearance seems to have interrupted their somewhat intimate conversation. Shunning their gazes, I pour myself some coffee and start on my bacon and eggs breakfast.

‘Did you sleep well?’ maman breaks the silence.

‘Quite well, merci.’ I answer, not looking at her.

‘Chéri, I’ve invited Monsieur Moreau to spend Christmas with us. Hope you don’t mind.’

‘No, not at all, on the contrary … It’ll break our usual routine.’

‘Luke, dear, what on earth do you mean by that?’ she cries out.

‘I think Monsieur Luke might have meant that guests bring an element of a surprise into family holidays, making them more delightful.’ Monsieur Moreau joins in.

I nod in agreement.

The rest of breakfast passes in a solemn silence. Finished, we move into the sitting room where a glitzy pyramid of gifts towers under the fluffy Christmas, tree, a miniature version of the one in the reception room.

Maman sits down on the sofa, her legs crossed. I flop into an armchair. Monsieur Moreau, cigar in mouth, comes and stands by the fireplace.

‘My dear Rosalinda,’ he addresses maman, ‘may I take on a role of Santa Claus in this house today?’

‘But of course! I’d be delighted. Usually, I’m the one who have to play this role.’ she replies with a laugh.

‘Very well,’ he says, ‘then I’d like to start with Monsieur Luke Edward Allen.’

Episode 12 – Classic

Monte Carlo, France, 25 December

Approaching the Christmas tree, Monsieur Moreau reaches out behind it and draws out a box, in height levelling his chest. His arms wrapped around it, he comes over to my armchair and places the box before me.

‘Here, my dear friend,’ he says, ‘I hope this gift will mark the beginning of your journey in the fascinating world of music.’

Intrigued, I examine the box, then rip the golden wrapping paper off it and open it. Inside, I find a Fender electric guitar, brand new, still smelling of fresh lacquer – a real classic. Carefully, I pull it out and, laying it on my lap, stroke it gently.

‘Thank you so much, Monsieur Moreau,’ I say full of delight. ‘I’ve 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.’ maman announces 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.

Episode 13 – A Snapshot

Monte Carlo, France, 25 December

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. Scanning new messages, I look for her reply. Not seeing it, I look over the messages again, this time, going through them one by one, but still no luck. Just to be sure, I also check my spam box, nothing there either.

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 think, reading comments and updates of my Facebook ‘friends’. I’m about to leave the page when 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 library stands open, the voices of maman and Monsieur Moreau wafting out of it. Maman’s milky highland 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 behind me.

Episode 14 – The Magician

London, UK, 25 December

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 Frost’⁸ 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 be the Father Frost?’ I ask.

‘I suppose, I ought to gentlemanly pass this role to you.’ Nicolas replies.

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 wink, ‘I had a teeny-weeny peek inside and 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, Nicolas fishes out a card and proclaims: ‘And 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 among a garden of flowers. On the table in front of the Magician laid out a Cup, a Coin, and a Sword.

‘So, what does this all mean, then?’ I ask with a smile.

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 of overdoing 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 it and get out a volume in a dark-green velvety cover. Its title reads: ‘The History of Metaphysics and The Life’s Great Mysteries.’

Episode 15 – My Dearest

London, UK, 25 December

‘What a wonderful present, thank you so much!’ I say, flipping through the book, ‘I love books and this one seems to be a special one!’

‘Oh yes, it looked like it,’ he nods, ‘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 must go.’

I take him to the hall and kiss him good-bye. His bristled cheek gives me a tickle. He puts on his Russian ushanka-hat and starts out, slowly walking away. A ribbon of fresh footprints trails behind him in the snow.

‘Merry Christmas!’ I shout after him.

Turning around, Nicolas waves and shouts back: ‘Merry Christmas!’

I close the door and stand a little while in the hall then head to the dining room and start clearing the table. As I’m arranging plates in the dishwasher I think of what Nicolas half-jokingly has predicted for me. What did he say? ‘Overdoing on self-reflexivity?’

I suddenly remember that I haven’t had a chance to read the email that caught my attention before the arrival of Nicolas yesterday.

I take my iPad. At once, the screen lights up.

The message is dated the 24th of December. I begin to read it but stop and double-check the name at the end of the letter, then the email address that it’s been sent from. Apparently, it’s no hallucination.

It’s him.

But why now, why after months of silence he suddenly decides to reconnect with me?

I read his letter again but it doesn’t become any clearer.

My dearest, been thinking of you again. Yours L.E.A.

What on earth does he mean by ‘been thinking of you again’? How could he have been thinking of me again, if we haven’t been in touch for months? And, for that matter, have never seen each other either.

Episode 16 – Hush!

Monte Carlo, France, 25 December

I walk slowly along the street. Before me, Domino treads, stopping occasionally to examine lamp-posts. The sun shines brightly, caressing my face, but my thoughts are far from springy.

What am I to do now? The stupid photo must have been hanging on the Facebook since yesterday. By now, the whole of Côte d’Azur knows ‘the news’. Though this isn’t what worries me most. There is another thought that drills through my mind: what if she comes across the bogus image? If she does, she might misinterpret it. Perhaps, she’s already seen it and thought of me as a complete idiot and that is why she hasn’t responded to my email yet.

I reach the beach. Domino begins to jump excitedly around me. Seeing no reaction, he growls and tugs me by the jeans towards the edge of the water. Reluctant, but infatuated by his enthusiasm, I give in.

The sea is calm, but the shore is littered with washed out driftwood, sticks, fancifully knotted weeds, and even somebody’s blue snicker. I pick up a small stick and throw it into the water. Plunging into the sea, Domino dashes after it. Playing, we spend some time on the beach.

On returning home, I feel much better. Yet still not in the mood to talk to anyone, I plan on quickly sneaking back into my room. But as soon as we enter the hall, Domino explodes with loud barking.

‘Hush! You, stupid creature!’ I say, but he doesn’t stop.

Monsieur Moreau appears in the doorway of the library.

‘Have you had a good walk?’ he asks.

‘Yes, I have.’ I reply, not looking at him.

‘Monsieur Luke, is everything all-right?’

His question catches me halfway to the stairs. Surprised by his shrewdness, I freeze for a second. Seizing the moment, Monsieur Moreau takes me by the arm and gently leads me into the library.

‘Come, mon ami, let’s have some coffee and a good chat … ' he says.

Episode 17 – Cigar Case

Monte Carlo, France, 25 December

We walk in. I flop onto the sofa. Monsieur Moreau sits down next to me. Crossing his legs, he turns to me and studies me for a little while. I shift uncomfortably but say nothing. Monsieur Moreau reaches into his pocket, gets a cigar case out and hands it to me:

‘Merci, I don’t smoke.’ I say, throwing a curious glance at the case.

‘I’m afraid, you’ve misunderstood me,’ he replies, smiling, ‘I’m not trying to turn you into an avid smoker, I’m offering you to experience life sensations.’

He takes my hand and puts his cigar case in it.

‘Really? And how would you suggest me do that?’ I ask, feeling the cold metal against my skin.

‘How else but by senses, mon cher ami¹⁰!’ he replies.

‘Yes, but I don’t understand. How can I experience a sensation of smoking a cigar merely by holding your cigar case in my hand?’ I ask, bewildered.

‘And who’s told you there were cigars in it?’

‘But, this is a cigar case, isn’t it?’ I say.

‘Yes, it is.’ he nods.

‘So, then it must contain cigars.’ I insist.

‘Well, that’s what you think, but this alone doesn’t prove it actually does.’

‘But, if there are no cigars in it why then have you given it to me?’

‘For you to experience life sensations.’ Monsieur Moreau replies.

‘But … ' I say and look down at the cigar case in my hands. It has four cigar channels, engraved with floral scrolls. I touch them, feeling their curviness under my fingers. The case is in a pristine condition, no rubbing or scratches on it. The cartouche has a monogram, two intertwined letters: ‘J & M’. They could very well stand for Jim Morrison¹¹. But I don’t think he smoked cigars, though. Or maybe he did?

I open the case. The strong scent of tobacco hits my nostrils, but the four cigar channels are empty. Inhaling the tobacco aroma emanating from the cigar case, I admire it for a few more seconds, pondering over life sensations that Monsieur Moreau mentioned to me, then close it and hand the case back to him.

‘You know, ' he tells me, sliding it into the pocket of his tweed jacket, ‘when I was your age I also jumped to hasty conclusions and often ended up being tricked.’

‘Especially, in those cases that concerned women.’ he adds after a pause.

I blush.

Episode 18 – The Source of Wisdom

London, UK, 25 December

Not quite knowing what to make of his letter, I stare at the screen, then re-read his message one more time and start on my reply. I don’t wish my message to be formal, but, at the same time, try to avoid sounding as if all I have been doing is eagerly awaiting him to reconnect.

Finishing, I read through my letter and satisfied, press ‘send’. An image of a dove, slashing through the virtual space, taking my message to him, comes to my mind.

Though I have never met my mysterious ‘fan’, I have a feeling I’ve known him for centuries, as if he has come to me from my past life. The life I don’t have a recollection of but nonetheless have a distinct memory of a person who once was part of it.

I put my iPad aside and pick up the book on great mysteries of life. Here we go, a source of wisdom that seems to have solutions to the perplexities bothering minds of living creatures. I wish I had it some months ago. Then, perhaps, I would have already found the answers to my questions.

I run my fingers across the dark-green cover. The short thick pile of its velvet tingles my fingertips. I open the book and leaf through pages, pausing on illustrations depicting some mysterious symbols, magicians, and castles. The answers to my questions don’t seem to jump at me, at least not for the moment. I press the book against my chest and close my eyes.

A town spreads out before me. The sun shines brightly upon it. A light scent of lilies of the valley wafts in the warm spring like air. I find myself walking along one of the town’s streets. Approaching an antique bookshop, I stop and look at the window display. A huge book in the velvety cover, lying there, catches my eye. Intrigued, I study it. Under my gaze the book comes alive and opens up. Its pages, at first blank, start filling with lines of text. Attempting to read it, I press hard against the shop window and the next moment I find myself standing on one of the book’s pages, huge neon letters pulsating under my feet. I try to make words out of them but the pulsating letters cascade downwards, flowing into the book.

I hear a loud chime. The letters crumble and disappear. Tearing hundreds of pages, I fall into the bottomless depth of the ancient manuscript and wake up.

The sitting room is dark except the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. In the distance, the sound of chiming can still be heard. I realise it must be the church clock striking the hour. I count the chimes. Midnight!

Leaping off the sofa, I dash into my room. My plane to Nice leaves early in the morning and I haven’t packed yet.

Episode 19 – Any Plans?

Monte Carlo, France, 25 December

I grab the coffee pot and start pouring coffee into our cups.

‘I hope you will forgive an old man’s curiosity, mon ami, but … ' says Monsieur Moreau.

My hand betrays me and I spill some coffee onto the tray. The brown substance spreads out and forms a stain, resembling a heart. Monsieur Moreau takes the coffee pot from me, dries the stain out with his napkin, then hands me a cup of coffee and says, ‘Do you have any plans for the New Year’s Eve?’

‘Nothing of definite nature … ' I reply.

‘I hope you don’t mean that you wish to spend it all by yourself?’

‘No, of course not,’ I mutter, ‘I’d like to spend it in a company that’s stimulating in all senses.’

‘Of course,’ he nods, ‘and such a stimulating company would be your girl-friend, I assume.’

‘Well … I’d have been delighted …’

‘Pardon me, Monsieur Luke, but why do you say, ‘would have been’? Has she got some other plans for the New Year’s Eve?’

‘No, she hasn’t. The thing is she doesn’t exist … ' I murmur.

A short silence falls between us. I stare into my coffee cup. An antique clock ticks.

Monsieur Moreau gives my shoulder a light squeeze. I feel a sudden pang of sadness. Stay his hand a little longer on my shoulder I would have burst into crying before him: the only person who has ever taken an interest in my void of any private life existence.

‘Well, that’s quite all right, mon ami,’ he says. ‘it’s merely a matter of time. Such a handsome man like yourself won’t be left without a girl for long.’

‘You see … ' I begin but fall silent, scared of my own daring.

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing, I’ll tell you later.’ I reply, getting up.

In the hall, Domino breaks into loud barking. Maman must have just returned from her visits.

Episode 20 – Bye For Now

Monte Carlo, France, 25 December

I slip past maman and, taking the stairs two at a time, go up to my room.

‘Chéri, the dinner is served at seven tonight, not eight.’ she cries after me.

‘Yes, fine by me!’ I shout back and close the door behind me.

Coming to the window, I swing it open and let the cool evening air in. At the horizon the sea and the sky have become one in a scarlet kiss. Struck by the beauty of the moment, I stand by the window, admiring the sunset.

The dusk falls, enveloping the room in soft darkness. I slip my hand into the pocket. My fingers meet a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches.

I wasn’t quite honest with Monsieur Moreau, when I said I didn’t smoke. Well, technically I don’t, but I’m fascinated by the elegance he does it with. So, I’ve decided to practice on cigarettes and then move to cigars. If I manage it, I could make an impression in a club. Though, I’m not sure whom I want to impress there, certainly not those annoying the Von Witter daughters or others of the same ilk. I just wish … Oh, well, never mind.

Taking the matches out, I light up a candle on my desk, then take my laptop and flop onto the bed.

As usual, my inbox’s full of spam. I have to change the filter settings, I think as I check through new messages. Suddenly, amidst advertising and spamming emails I see Her reply. My heart jumps. I bring the cursor over and freeze.

A breath of sea air comes in through the open window and lightly touches my forehead. I draw in and click on the link. Her letter opens up. It is short, just a few lines.

Dear L.E.A., thank you for your email. Hope to meet you soon, after my trip to Nice. Happy New Year! Bye for now, Lina.