Puzzled

Translated from the Russian by Seraphima Bogomolova

Author’s site: www.seraphimabogomolova.com

Cover Design: Terminal Design www.terminaldesign.ru

© Copyright 2015—2017 Seraphima Bogomolova

Prologue

You know, I’ve made a wish: if we ever meet again, I’ll tell you something. Something I meant to tell you, but I hadn’t. I guess, I was afraid…

Chapter One

There is a distance, a veil between us.

— Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front, Ch. 6

Episode 1 — Acquaintance

Notting Hill, London, 6 June 2008

It’s summer but the rain drizzles tirelessly, all day covering rooftops and pavements with its shimmering net.

I get out of the tube, open my umbrella and hurry off along the High Street. Reaching the café, I stop and peer in — the place seems deserted.

I push the door and walk in. Inside, small round tables line up along the walls. I choose one close to the bar. Placing my umbrella on the floor, I sit down, perching on the edge of the chair.

I’m five minutes late.

He couldn’t have left already, could he?

I take my raincoat off and look around. The cafe is not only bare of clients, but waiters are also nowhere to be seen.

What a strange place, I think and try to take on more confident posture.

Some time passes.

Outside, the rain is still drizzling.

I pull my mobile out and put it on the table. Thoughts — one strangest than the other — start whirling in my head. I grab the menu and stare at it. Running my eyes over the list, I try to take my mind off him.

Suddenly, out of the unseen depth of the cafe a waiter in a white t-shirt and a pair of shabby blue jeans emeges.

“Are you ready to order?” He asks.

Startled, I stare at him. He stares back.

“Not yet.” I reply.

He shrugs indifferently and disappears, leaving me alone again.

I put the menu down and look at the clock hanging above the bar. Almost an hour has passed since my arrival. I must have mixed up with the dates.

I dial his number.

Something clicks and an automated message informs me: “The number is out of reach.”

Episode 2 — Nicolas

London, 24 December 2010

Outside, big fluffy snowflakes silently swirl in a magical dance.

In the windows of an Edwardian house across the street a tall Christmas tree is visible. Hanging on the prickly paws are golden apples and walnuts, red bows and coloured nets with sweetmeats. Glittering in its glory, the tree twinkles merrily at me.

The church bells chime in the distance.

I move away from the window.

An aroma of pine tree and oranges wafts in the air. I throw a pleased glance at the Christmas tree, flickering in the dimness of my living room. A big shiny bauble on a lower branch catches my eye. The snowy Rockefeller SquareRockefeller Square is a complex of 19 commercial buildings covering 22 acres (89,000 m2) between 48th and 51st streets in New York City, United States. Built by the Rockefeller family, it is located in the centre of Midtown Manhattan, spanning the area between Fifth Avenue and Sixth Avenue. is skilfully depicted on it. I think of my friends scattered around the world.

What are they up to right now?

I take my laptop and curl up on the sofa.

My inbox has new messages. I scan them quickly, mostly Christmas wishes but one email stands out. The sender’s name looks familiar. Intrigued, I click on the message. It opens up.

The doorbell rings.

I leap off the sofa and rush out into the hall.

The door opened, a frosty wind blows a handful of prickly snowflakes into my face.

At the doorstep Nicolas stands, a Russian ushanka-hat on his head and a bottle of French wine in his hands.

“Hey, you’re early.” I say.

“No, I am not. Right on time, as agreed, at seven.” He replies, presenting me with the bottle.

“Thanks. I must have been dreaming, then.”

“Yeah. The happy don’t keep account of time, as one of your Russian classics said once.”

“Do you mean Alexander Griboyedov?”Alexander Sergeyevich Griboyedov (January 15, 1795 — February 11, 1829) — a Russian diplomat, playwright, poet, and composer.

“That’s right,” says Nicolas, pulling his hat off, and walks in. “That phrase is the only legacy left to me by my ex, a devotee of Russian classics.”

“And the hat?” I ask, smiling.

“And the hat too…”

I leave him in the hall and head to the kitchen.

Episode 3 — What Girl?

Monte Carlo, 24 December 2010

Before me, the sea stretches out into the horizon. Above it, the dark purple clouds hang low in the sky.

I hear gusts of wind, crashing against the French windows of my room. With every gust the glass trembles and sweats down glistening droplets of rain.

I sit at the desk, cocooned by the soft glow of the candle standing by my laptop.

The sound of rushed footsteps and lifted voices is coming from downstairs. Maman is throwing a big reception tonight: her annual Christmas dinner. If it were for me I wouldn’t attend it. I hate chatting to the girls of her friends, pretending to be interested in nonsense they utter at me.

Directing my thoughts towards more positive subject, I Google her name, which by now has become so dear to me, and scroll through the links. A site that seems interesting catches my eye.

I click on it.

Suddenly, the door opens and in marches maman.

“Mum, why on earth you can never knock?” I cry out, deleting the page from the screen.

“What an annoying habit to sit in darkness,” she says and turns the light on.

I squint.

“ChériCheri (Fr.) — dear, why are you sitting at your desk, not ready? The guests will be arriving in half an hour and, apparently, you haven’t been to shower yet!”

“I can’t care less for your ludicrous guests.” I say.

“These, as you call them, ludicrous guests are the most influential families of Monaco. At your age, I was already engaged and you don’t even have a decent girl!”

“What girl?” I reply.

“Don’t play stupid. You know what I mean!”

“All-right. But what has it got to do with anything?” I stand up and turn the light down.

“It has to do with everything, because all you do is stare into your stupid computer and listen to your stupid music!” She cries out, her diamonds fiercely sparkling in the candlelight.

A furiously sparkling Christmas tree… I turn away, trying not to burst into laughter.

“Luke, you don’t listen to me at all!”

Episode 4 — The Number of The Beast

London, 24 December 2010

“Shall I keep my shoes on?” Nicolas shouts to me from the hall.

“As you wish,” I shout back.

“Do you need any help?” He asks, walking into the kitchen.

“No, thanks, it’s fine. Mum’s cook took care of everything this afternoon. She said just to heat it up whenever we wish.”

“Here, I’ve got a little present for you.”

He hands me a shiny red package, tied up with a golden ribbon.

“Thank you, I’ve something for you too.”

I take his present to the living room and come back. Nicolas sits at the bar in the middle of the kitchen, studying his reflection in the polished pans that hang above his head.

I peek inside the oven. The roasted duck is warming up nicely.

I take out plates and start arranging steamed vegetables and boiled potatoes on them.

“Do you know anything about The Number of The Beast?” I ask, finishing with the vegetables and moving to French cheeses.

“What do you need that for? Are you into occultism now?”

“No, I’m not, just being curious. I heard about it once from an acquaintance of mine. But it’s a long story…”

“I see. Well, as far as I know, The Number of The Beast has got something to do with the name of the Antichrist that corresponds to a certain numerical value. The mark can be identified by either the beast’s name, or the numerical of his name. For example, Friedrich von Hezel believed that Napoleon Bonaparte Napoleon Bonaparte — born Napoleone di Buonaparte, (15 August 1769 — 5 May 1821) was a French military and political leader who rose to prominence during the latter stages of the French Revolution and its associated wars.was such a beast.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Sure about what?” He looks up at me.

“Well, you know, about the beast thing…”

“Oh, it isn’t I it is gematriagematria — an Assyro-Babylonian system of numerology later adopted by Jews that assigns numerical value to a word or phrase in the belief that words or phrases with identical numerical values bear some relation to each other or bear some relation to the number itself as it may apply to a person’s age, the calendar year, or the like.. But, personally, I’m more inclined towards an idealist view.” He replies.

“And what that would be?”

“And that would be more of a symbolic, figurative, meaning. The common suggestion is that seven is a number of completeness and is associated with divine and six is a number of incompleteness. In other words, the number of the beast can represent an individual’s incomplete or immature spiritual state.”

“What about the value itself?” I ask.

“What about it?”

“Well, what’s the number that represents the numerical value of the beast?”

“The triple 6.” He replies.

“Do you mean 6-6-6?”

“Yes.” He nods.

Episode 5 — Cross My Heart!

Monte Carlo, 24 December 2010

The argument with maman leaves me no time for shower. I quickly brush my teeth and gel my hair, trying to style my waves into something that can resemble a gentleman’s look. But instead, make it worse: the hair becomes sticky and greasy.

I curse and pull on my tux, the starched collar of my shirt biting beastly into my neck. Grabbing the white bow, I fix it as I run down the stairs.

In the hall, lit by the crystal chandelier, maman, the most charming smile attached to her rouge lips, greets arriving guests.

I try to slip by her unnoticed.

“Luke, darling,” she catches me halfway, “would you please say hello to Baron Von Witte. He hasn’t had the pleasure of seeing you recently.”

Reluctantly, I approach a group of newly arrived guests. Having shaken hands with the Baron, I plan on a quick escape, but maman grabs me by the arm and pulls me aside.

“What’s wrong with you?” She hisses, glancing at my hair.

“Nothing, unlike with some of your honourable guests.” I reply, nodding in the direction of one of the Baron’s daughters.

“Please, behave!”

“Sure.”

She gives me a disapproving stare.

“Mum, honestly. Cross my heart!” I say.

“Stop this nonsense at once, will you!”

“Mum, relax, it’s just a…” I begin, but at this moment another group of guests arrive. She rushes towards them, leaving me alone.

I breathe a sigh of relief, straighten my bow and head to the reception room, open and decorated for the tonight’s festivity.

Flames glaring on guests’ faces, the fire crackles merrily in a huge fireplace. Beside it, a tall Christmas tree is erected. The colourful baubles shine on its fluffy paws. A scent of expensive perfumes mixed with the smell of cigars and pine tree wafts in the air.

I grab two glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray and gulp them down. Immediately feeling better, I throw a curious look around the room, but find little of interest: all the same faces, nothing of stimulating or inspiring nature.

“Excuse me.”

I turn around and meet the eyes of a skinny girl, wearing some ridiculous haute couture dress.

“Yes?” I say.

“Would you mind if I take a picture of you?” She utters.

“No, I wouldn’t.” I lie.

Episode 6 — To Love

London, 24 December 2010

I put Christmas dishes out on the table, place snow-white starched napkins by our plates and light up candles.

We sit down.

Nicolas takes a bottle of red wine in his hands.

“Why are you alone this Christmas?” He asks, inserting an opener into the cork.

“I’m not alone, I’m with you.”

He looks up at me.

“Are you flirting with me?”

“No, just poking fun at you. But seriously, I just thought that, for a change, I could spend Christmas here in London.” I say.

“What about New Year’s Eve? Set for Russia?” He asks.

“Missed again. French Riviera.”

“Didn’t know you had friends there.” He says, his eyebrows arching in surprise.

“I don’t. At least, no one I can call that really. Just couple of people I’m acquainted with.”

Abruptly, he pulls the cork out and spills some wine on his jeans. I throw my napkin to him. He catches it and starts vigorously rubbing the stain, only making it worse.

“Here,” I say, pushing salt to him, “spice it up, it should work better.”

“I doubt it.” He says gloomily.

“Oh, really?” I smile. “Any evidence to proof otherwise?”

He sends me a glaring look and throws my napkin back at me.

“Any 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 amiMon ami (Fr.) — my friend. 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 bruleeCrème brûlée, also known as burnt cream, crema catalana, or Trinity cream, is a dessert consisting of a rich custard base topped with a contrasting layer of hard caramel. that I can’t stand.

“Forgive me, but I couldn’t help but notice that while talking to me you kept throwing rather interested glances at the chair on your left.”

My cheeks turn red.

“I didn’t know you could read people’s minds.” I say.

“I can’t, but it is written all over your face.”

“Really?” I look up at him.

He meets my eyes. Drawing deeply on his cigar, he lets the smoke out through his nostrils then nods.

“Yes, really.”

He puts his cigar aside, takes up the coffee cup and raises it to his lips. A diamond of his cufflink flickers knowingly at me.

We sit in silence for a bit.

Monsieur Moreau finishes his coffee and says:

“If I were you, I’d take the card and would find out as much as I can about this lady. In fact, I’d find everything possible and even the impossible about her.”

He stands up and stretches his hand out to me. Jumping to my feet, I give it a shake, then grab the card and slip it into the pocket of my trousers.

Episode 10 — Déjà Vu

Monte Carlo, 24 December 2010

It is midnight.

Finally, maman’s guests start leaving.

The dining room deserted, the only signs of their presence left are the unfinished wine in crystal glasses, heaps of creased napkins, and remnants of melted candles on the tables.

I go up to my room.

The storm has calmed down, but the droplets of rain haven’t dried out on the windows yet.

I take off my tux, untie the bow and undo the collar of the shirt, finally freeing my neck from its starched clutch.

Lying down on the bed, I take the card out and study the name written on it.

“Where could I have seen or heard it before?”

But no matter how much I try I don’t seem to be able to recall anything of relevant nature. Yet, I somehow feel that I know the woman whose name is embossed in gold on the card. Though, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone called Angela Du Monde, at least not at the dinners, suppers or balls that have been organised by maman.

And even outside these festivities I don’t remember meeting any Angela. Unless, without me having realised it, our life paths happened to cross somehow.

I, of course, can enquire about it of maman. But chances are she will misinterpret my interest.

I’d better deal with it myself…

Hearing the knock on the door, I slip the card back into my pocket.

The door opens and in peers maman.

“Chéri, are you asleep?” She asks.

“No.”

She enters the room.

“You’ve been such a darling tonight.” She says.

I give her a grin.

“You know, Monsieur Moreau is quite taken with you!”

“Likewise. By the way, why haven’t you introduce him to me before?” I ask.

“Oh, there hasn’t ever been a right moment, you know. He travels a lot and doesn’t visit Monaco often…”

“Ah, I see.” I mutter, not looking at her.

She comes to my bed and gives me a kiss on the forehead.

“Good-night, sweetheart.”

“Good-night, Mum.”

She leaves the room.

I turn the light down. Staring into the darkness, I listen to the silence of the house and ponder for a while over the name of the stranger who seems so familiar, then pull the blanket over my head and fall asleep.

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, 25 December 2010

The curtains undrawn, the bright sunlight is flooding into my room.

I stretch, 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, pull my clothes off, and 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’s 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.”

“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 helps me out.

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 our 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 has to play this role.” She replies with a laugh.

“Very well,” he says, “then I’d like to start with Monsieur Luke Andrew Allen.”

Episode 12 — Classic

Monte Carlo, 25 December 2010

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 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 quickly examine the box, then rip the golden wrapping paper off it and open the box. 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”, 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 FrostFather 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. 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 ouroborosOuroboros — from the Greek- tail-devouring snake, an ancient symbol depicting a serpent or dragon eating its own tale. 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 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, he 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?”

Perhaps…

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

The message is dated the 24th of December. I begin to read it but stop, double-checking the name at the bottom of it, then the email address that it’s been sent from.

It’s him.

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

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

My dearest… been thinking of you again… much love…

What on earth does he mean by been thinking of you again

How could he think of me again, if we haven’t been in touch for the past two years? And, for that matter, have never met each other either.

Episode 16 — Hush!

Monte Carlo, 25 December 2010

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 on 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 hiss, but he doesn’t stop.

Monsieur Moreau appears in the doorway of the sitting room.

“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, he takes me by the arm and gently leads into the sitting room.

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

Episode 17 — Cigar Case

Monte Carlo, 25 December 2010

We walk in.

I flop onto the sofa. Monsieur Moreau sits down next to me. Crossing his legs, he studies me for a little while. I shift uncomfortably but say nothing.

He reaches into his pocket, gets a cigar case out and hands it to me:

“Merci, but 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 amiMon cher amie (Fr.) — my dear friend!” 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 are cigars in it?” He responds.

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

“Yes, it is.”

“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 have you given it to me then?”

“For you to experience life sensations.” He replies.

“But…” I start and look down at the cigar case.

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 MorrisonJim Morrison — an American singer, songwriter and poet best remembered as the lead singer of The Doors..

But I don’t think he smoked cigars, though.

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 says, sliding the case 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, 25 December 2010

I re-read his message several time and start on my reply.

Carefully picking the words, I string them into sentences.

I don’t wish my message to be formal, but, at the same time, try to avoid sounding as if all I’ve been doing is eagerly awaiting him to reconnect.

Finished, I read through my email and click on send button. 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 date, I have a feeling I’ve known him for centuries, as if he’s 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 laptop 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 this book two years ago. Perhaps, I would have already found the answers to my questions.

I run my fingers across the cover. The short thick pile of its velvet tingles my fingertips.

I open the book and leaf through pages. 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.

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 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, 25 December 2010

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…” begins 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 simply doesn’t exist…” I murmur.

A short silence falls between us.

I stare into my coffee cup. An antique clock ticks on the wall.

Monsieur Moreau gives me a light squeeze on the shoulder.

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. “You know, 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 and get up.

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

Episode 20 — Bye For Now

Monte Carlo, 25 December 2010

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.