Читать книгу Puzzled - Seraphima Bogomolova - Страница 9

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.’