Puzzled - Seraphima Bogomolova

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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,

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