For jaded people, the only pleasure left is to demolish others. ― Anaïs Nin
Bar Contemplation
I’m sitting at the bar at Coro’s eagerly anticipating some divine revelations from the legendary Victor Goldman.
The man’s an icon on Bay Street and Wall Street and any other street famous for stocks and investments.
But Victor is without peer. He’s not merely a financial genius and self-made man, but he’s cool at seventy and women actually pursue him.
His reputation is well-deserved—He’s the Man Who Has Everything.
I have no idea why Victor has chosen me to be the recipeint of this priveleged disclosure but I’m both humbled and excited at the prospect.
Victor senses my intensity and takes his time sipping his scotch, holding it up to the light as if scrying the contents in the manner of gazing into a crystal ball.
When he’s convinced the time is right, he puts down the glass and leans back in his chair, sizing me up.
He sees I’m sufficiently attentive and eager to begin, and so he lowers his baritone a notch and almost whispers as he confides some oracular message that he knows will be completely absorbed by me.
“I’m going to tell you this parable, Gray, as it was disclosed to me by a Russian aristocrat whom I had the good fortune to meet when I was a very young man embarking on my ‘Grand Tour’ —wandering through Europe in search of myself.”
I could scarcely believe my fortune. I was hanging on his every word.
But as Victor began speaking a strange thing occurred—I not only identified with the young aristocrat in his story—I became him.
It was as if Victor had mesmerized me with his voice or perhaps in some mystic way there was a temporary transmigration of souls and everything I experienced came through the young aristocrat’s flesh.
It turned out the young aristocrat was a prince set to inherit family titles, fortune and estates the day he turned twenty-one.
On the morning of his inheritance, he decided to get up early, pack a picnic lunch and take a walking tour of his estate.
He would walk for three hours- sun himself, eat lunch and then return in time to drive to Moscow and sign the inheritance papers – then he would spend the next few hours getting ready for the debutante’s ball.
These details reminded me of my own life – how I inherited my parents’ fortune when they died in a plane crash – how I had been touted as most eligible bachelor until I turned thirty-five and then was replaced by other celebrities who were now more appropriately seen as filling that role.
Victor’s voice rumbled on as he narrated his tale.
It seemed the prince walked for three hours and then spotted a huge black slab of rock in the middle of a field of feather grass. He made for the rock, took out his wine, cheese and bread – ate his feast and napped for a half hour basking in the sun and the warmth of the rock.
Then, it was time to return and claim his inheritance.
The young man started back, walking across the field of grass—but as he was nearing the old, dusty pathway he heard a snapping sound, as if he were walking on thin ice and suddenly the ground beneath him splintered and the earth seemed to swallow him up.
He reacted quickly, but frantically—casting himself forward on the grass, grasping a handful of long feather grass. But his feet slid out beneath him as a cloud of bees ascended into the air. He was beginning to slide down into a hole, his hands unable to catch hold of the damp feather grass.
At the last moment, he noticed a gnarled tree root growing out of the sides of the sandy shaft, and grasped onto it and held on for dear life.
Once, he was sure he had a firm grip on the tree root he began shouting for help at the top of his voice. He did this for several moments until he came to his senses. It had been some time since he had passed the last peasant hut on his walk out—he was certain no one would hear him.
He began absurdly to panic and shout all the more, but eventually his voice went hoarse and his throat sore, and he stopped. A strange calm came over him.
It was futile. He was going to die. There was no exit from this hole. It was his fate.
He even laughed cynically at the irony of his predicament. He was only a foot away from the safety of the surface, but could not pull himself up to reach it. What was worse, he noticed a yellow river of sand running past his nose. He looked closely and saw the root was beginning to give way.
As he hung there contemplating his fate, he understood the bitter irony he inherited. He had spent his whole life living for pleasure and his last moments would be spent in utter agony, clinging to life until the agonizing pain would force his muscles to let go and he would plunge down the abyss to almost certain death.
As he hung there, he saw a few drops of honey on the root, glistening in the sunlight. He stuck out his tongue and licked them off.
Victor had been leaning in, staring intensely into my eyes—he now sat back in his chair, took a sip of his wine, and stared off into space as if contemplating man’s inscrutable place in the universe.
I was sick at heart. I identified with the prince. I was him—I was stuck down a well, suspended over an abyss. The futility of my life slammed into me with the cruelty of being run over by a ten-ton truck—except, I was still alive to feel the pain.
Victor seemed to sense something of what I was experiencing. He dramatically embellished finishing off his scotch and elegantly returned the glass to the table.
“All for a taste of honey, eh Man? Seems so absurd doesn’t it? But we do it—I did it. Spent forty-five years building this firm—for what? He picked up the bills he had left the waitress as a tip, crushed them in his fist and tossed them in the air.
“Ha! All for a few dollars that can be grasped like so much trash.”
His eyes twinkled as he smiled triumphantly, confident he had made his point.
I felt sick. I literally could see the room swim before me. “I’ve got to go, Victor,” I rasped.
“What—and not hear the ending?”
I stopped, partway out of my chair, mouth agape, staring at him. “I thought that was the ending.”
“Oh, nonsense, my boy—how could we have known what went on in the prince’s head if he perished in the abyss?”
I shook my head. My mind was a complete blank. Victor motioned me to sit back down and he continued his story.
It turns out an old peasant man and his plough horse were in a nearby field and he heard the shouts and came, knowing what had happened.
He told the villagers over the years to plug up the well with a huge rock. They laughed him to scorn.
“Why should we bother, old man? Everyone knows the well is there—only a fool would fall in.” Well, he told himself, now a young fool has fallen in.
He took a rope and made a noose and draped it over the young man in the well.
“Hold on, my young fool,” he shouted down to him.
He tied the other end to his plough horse, slapped his rump, and the horse took two steps forward and the young man was pulled out.
The old man muttered, as he gathered up the rope. “I warned them, but would they listen to wisdom? Oh no, I’m just an old man.”
He looked down in disdain at the young man lying face down on the grass blubbering. “Get up, you fool—you’re safe now. In future, take heed of your steps.”
As the prince sat up, the old man recognized his young master. “Oh, forgive me, Your Highness, I had no idea. Let me help you.”
He put the prince on his old plough horse, took him back to his hut and nursed him. Needless to say, the prince didn’t go to Moscow that day, or to the Debutante’s Ball that evening. As a matter of fact, the prince abhorred his inheritance.
He freed his slaves and allowed them to own their plots of land, and he himself lived in a simple hut on the estate as if he were a peasant himself.
Victor sat back, a contented smile on his face.
“Pretty sobering, isn’t it? A cautionary tale, my boy.”
I nodded, drained and too mute to add anything.
“Well, I must be going and leave you to your partying and your young women. I had a most enjoyable time, Gray—now, you have a good evening.”
He winked and walked away, leaving me sobered and depleted. I ordered a double scotch, and felt its fire warm me all the way down.
So much for bloody old men and their wisdom, I grumbled. I ordered another and was on my third double when Tess and Sylvia arrived.
Both women were overjoyed to see me, but Sylvia seemed unusually friendly.
She actually smiled at me. “Thank God you didn’t leave, Gray—we’ve had a horrid night, but I know you’ll make things better.”
I sat back and smiled genially at her—sizing her up, and then, chuckled quietly.
It was a queer laugh—the short, cynical snort of a jaded man.
To be continued...
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