‘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, France, 24 December
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 rouged lips, greets arriving guests. I try to slip by her unnoticed, but fail.
‘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 whispers, glancing at my hair.
‘Nothing, unlike with some of your honourable guests.’ I reply, nodding in a direction of one of the Baron’s daughter.
‘Please, behave!’
‘Yes, 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 and 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 hear somebody’s mutter behind me.
I turn around meeting 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, UK, 24 December
I put Christmas dishes out on the table, place snowy 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.’
Nicolas 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.’ Nicolas 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, France, 24 December
The room is now filled up, an invitation to dinner is announced. The red dots of their 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: ‘Monsieur Moreau’.
The gentleman smiles and gives me a slight nod.
The chair on my left is 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: ‘Mademoiselle 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 Edward Allen, the son of our marvellous hostess.’ he says.
‘That is 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 is 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 it can be. 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, UK, 24 December
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 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.
Months have passed since our ‘date’, but I’m still perplexed in regard to why he stood me up. After all, it was he who had arranged the rendezvous.
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 wrote 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?