the light of the stars

There is no light in earth or heaven
But the cold light of stars;
And the first watch of night is given
To the red planet Mars.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The crescent moon drags a fingernail down the back of the sky and dies. I lift my glass and toast its demise.

It was a good day—made a tidy sum on the Market, but a bad day too—Sylvia was disinterested.

I’m forty and she’s twenty-two—I know, an insane desire, but what matters when you’ve got everything else?

“Why so melancholic, Gray?”

Tom Barron has followed me out to the terrace and now sits on the wicker chair facing me. I wince inwardly, not wanting to answer, but something’s been demanded, so I feign an off-hand reply.

“I hate nights—the Market’s closed and I get bored.”

“Must be hard—being on 24/7. Don’t you take holidays?”

“Not bloody likely,” I snort. “Hate holidays—they interrupt my life.”

He shakes his head sadly. “You’re a driven man, Gray. What more do you have to prove? Hell, you could retire and live out your dream on a Caribbean isle—you could buy one for that matter.”

“What would be the point in that?”

“An end to striving,” he shrugs. “You get to keep all the toys and go home.”

“You think I’m afraid of risk? I’m not.”

I point to a small red orb in the sky. “See that red dot up there? It’s Mars, named after the god of war. That’s me—a warrior—a man of blood. I love a challenge.”

He looks amused. “Ah yes, the struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. But why keep rolling that rock endlessly up a hill? Give it a rest, Gray. You’ve proven yourself. What else is left?”

Sylvia’s face appears in my mind—floats up like a balloon adrift in the desolate night.

“I still have things I need to do.”

He smiles cynically and stares off into the twilight gloom. “Well, good luck with that. Hell, even Victor’s calling it quits—the man who has everything.”

The mention of Victor Goldman’s name pains me—The Most Interesting Man in the World—that’s what the females in the firm call him. Victor Goldman—partner in Sachs and Goldman Investments—renowned man about town. And even at seventy, still embodies everything I ever wanted to be—handsome, charming, urbane and fabulously successful.

It makes me sad to think he’s leaving, but I realize it’s because I never had a real mentor of my own—someone to teach me how to appreciate the finer things of life.

Well now, he’s retiring and that opportunity is slipping away like so many other things in my life—like time—like dreams—hell, like Sylvia herself.

Tom yawns, gets to his feet and stretches.

“I’ve got to be going, Pal—tomorrow will be a long day what with Victor’s retirement party at Coro’s and all. Take care, Gray.”

“See you then, Tom.” I smile and tip my glass to him.

After he’s gone, the melancholy closes in. Nature abhors a vacuum they say, and I have a gaping chasm inside me nothing seems to fill.

My cell buzzes and I see Tess’s name. I sigh, turn off the ringer and push aside my guilt. I told her I’d go clubbing tonight, but can’t bring myself to go through the charade.

Tess is Sylvia’s friend—the only reason I cultivated a friendship with her.

My mind goes back to that first meeting with Tess—she’s twenty-three, a year older than Sylvia. But Tess isn’t beautiful—in terms of looks, I’d say she’s quietly attractive. The one outstanding quality I’ll grudgingly give her is she’s vivacious. She lights up a room just by being in it.

I admit, at first, I was smitten and flattered she’d be intrigued by me. I began noticing small things—how she’d park her car beside mine in the corporate parking lot, and eagerly go with me on errands until we became ‘best buds’ as she put it.

It was harmless – exhilarating to be seen with a young woman on my arm—an ingénue who was obviously deeply infatuated. I even toyed with the idea of allowing her to move in, but that’d be inconvenient, seeing as I was obsessed with Sylvia

But the more I pursued Sylvia, the more distant she became. I might have given up the quest, except I was convinced Sylvia and I had a mystical connection—hers was the last face I saw before sleep, and in my dreams we shared a romance our everyday lives belied.

I burned to know if she experienced the same astral connection—if her nights were filled with blurry images, whispered conversations and touching intimacies.

It was damnably frustrating, yet deliciously sweet at the same time. But I never acted even remotely interested in her.

Inwardly though, I constantly daydreamed wondering if she secretly longed for me. A painful thought crossed my mind that perhaps I was someone she despised. And although the latter prospect was crushing, it was a better alternative than to think I might be inconsequential—a faint star in the background of her life. In a worse case scenario, I might be a pitiful fool she laughed about with her friends.

To prevent being mundane, I wanted to capture something of Victor’s mystique—I knew she admired him. I tried to inflate my persona, but began hating myself for name-dropping

I’m ashamed to admit I would stop at nothing to impress Sylvia—and the worst display of my neediness occurred three weeks ago.

I deliberately invited Tess back to my penthouse saying we’d have a drink on the terrace and toast the rising moon.

Her eyes gleamed. I knew she’d find it irresistibly romantic—but unperceived by her, I harbored a secret motive—a plan to impress Sylvia.

I intended to allow Tess to discover some incriminating documents pertaining to one of my youthful indiscretions. I hoped to create a ‘bad boy’ mystique to add intrigue to an otherwise boring persona.

It wasn’t anything devastating by today’s standards–just a juvenile faux pas. I had just turned twenty and was arrested for marijuana possession, but Norrie Clarke, a family friend, who was with the RCMP got me off with a mere fine and no criminal record. However, the ‘generosity’ came with strings attached. He told me I owed him a favor – and some day, he’d come back to collect.

Sure enough, a few years later, Norrie recruited me to do some light spying– it was nothing dangerous – mere surveillance and intelligence. But as a result of my sleuthing and subsequent court testimony, an immigrant who was selling industrial secrets to China was charged with espionage. I received a letter of commendation from Jean Chrétien, then Prime Minister of Canada.

I placed the documents where Tess was sure to stumble upon them, and had already planned how to react. I’d appear embarrassed and make Tess swear never to reveal the truth. But I knew how Tess deeply admired me and wouldn’t be able to resist revealing my heroics to everyone at the firm.

I pictured basking in the adulation of the women. My indiscretion and subsequent redemption could only add to my reputation as an international man of mystery akin to Victor Goldman—and possibly, in the light of the government commendation, I might be considered even more a man of action and substance.

Of course things went exactly as planned. Tess couldn’t resist telling our colleagues and my stature in the office was instantly enhanced. Even the great Victor Goldman himself stopped me in the middle of the office, slapping me good-naturedly on the back and lauded my achievement.

“Quite impressive, my boy,” he gushed, “You outdid yourself—I’m envious.”

The women stopped their work and amazingly, began to applaud, and Victor himself graciously stood aside so as not to share the limelight—and actually joined in the applause.

It was a heady moment, save for one thing—Sylvia wasn’t there. She was attending to clients in New York, but I was reasonably sure everyone would fill her in on the details when she returned.

Disappointingly, however, Sylvia was not impressed. I was despondent, so bleak that Tom Barron perceived my sullenness and insisted we go out for drinks. It was on that occasion at Coro’s he revealed an interesting fact. It turns out Tom also was interested in Sylvia, but apparently blew his chance when she heard his foul mouth.

“I’m not upset, Gray—Sylvia would be incredibly high-maintenance, and besides, shortly after dating her I met Vera.”

Vera is a beautiful South American stockbroker and as it turns out, attracted to Tom and doesn’t mind at all that he swears–as a matter of fact, she finds it endearing.

But Tom’s failed attempt at dating Sylvia depressed me. Tom’s twenty-nine—much closer to Sylvia’s age than I, and yet she found him uninteresting. What real chance did I have?

The more I thought about it I concluded Sylvia was very particular about whom she dated and was certainly not ‘caviar for the general’ – she was an exquisite gem, not paste glass. So, I became even more obsessed with her, wanting her more than ever.

I knew Sylvia was bristly, and had a standoffish way about her – and it infuriated Tom who saw her as a bitch, but to my mind, made her remote and inaccessible—like a goddess.

But regardless of the frustrations of the past few weeks, tomorrow was Friday and the buzz around the office was about the lavish cocktail party planned at Coro’s in the evening to celebrate Victor Goldman’s retirement—the guest list would include some of the most powerful men on Bay and Wall Streets, and the New York firm had even invited many famous celebrities.

It would be a memorable night—my last chance to glean a few pearls of wisdom from Victor and gain another opportunity to impress Sylvia. I resolved to make the best use of the occasion, arranging to leave early and spend the afternoon getting spray tanned and afterwards to go shopping in the Village for something new to wear.

In the evening, I planned to spent at least two hours getting ready – coiffing my hair, selecting my clothes and choosing just the right cologne. I was fetishistic by nature and Victor’s retirement party seemed the appropriate occasion for me to ascend to my rightful place in the firm, hopefully with Sylvia as consort by my side.

I arrived at the party just past eight but was disappointed to find neither Tess nor Sylvia there. According to Tom, they had car problems and might not make it at all.

I was totally devastated and miserable. I wasted an hour making the rounds, shaking hands and going through the motions of being sociable, but at the first opportunity I slipped out of the restaurant and headed to the bar intending to get drunk.

I picked a table with a view of the city lights and began downing double scotches, while morosely reflecting on my life.

A familiar, cultured, baritone brought me out of my reverie.

“There you are, Gray—thought you left—escaped this dreary affair. Wouldn’t have blamed you if you did. It’s horrid.”

Victor Goldman shivered theatrically, and then winked at me, a sly smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Do you mind if I join you?”

I instantly rose to my feet. “Please do Victor—excuse my rudeness—I ‘m just not very good at schmoozing, I’m afraid.”

He beckoned to the waitress to drop two more scotches and then waved off my apology.

“No need to apologize, my boy—I share your sentiments exactly. I find the common crowd boring”

He sat back and smiled genially at me—sizing me up, and then, chuckled quietly to himself. It was a queer laugh—the short, cynical snort of a jaded man.

I felt I had been weighed and found wanting.

The drinks arrived just then, and my train of thought was interrupted. Victor lifted his glass in toast, “A penny for your thoughts, Gray—you seem preoccupied with weighty matters.”

“I suppose—I seem to be going through a rough patch just now.”

“Ah yes, the vicissitudes of the flesh,” he commiserated. He was turning the tumbler of scotch over in his hand, holding it up to the light as if scrying the future in its contents.

His voice softly rumbled like a Delphic oracle, “You know, my boy, Kipling once advised his son to treat triumph and disaster as the same. Can’t say I’ve ever been able to do that in my life.”

“Well, it’s obvious your triumphs have far outweighed any failures, Victor,” I grumbled.

“Perhaps…perhaps,” he smiled ruefully. “But everything comes at a cost, Gray—surely you know that. You can’t have it all.”

“I suppose..”

“But you want it, eh?” His eyes gleamed. “We all want a little bit of heaven in the here and now.”

Again, the slight cynical chuckle as he sipped his scotch, allowing it to light a fire in him.

“I’m glad I found you and we’re having this opportunity to talk, Gray—I’ve been meaning to pass on some wisdom to you. You seem receptive—but as for the others in the firm,” he paused, as a look of disdain crossed his features, “well let’s just say it’d be like coals to Newcastle—my words would be lost on them.”

His encouragement humbled me and at the same time produced a burning sensation in my chest. I not only wanted to emulate him. I wanted to be him.

“Thank you, Victor, I’m humbled to think you’re willing to pass along any wisdom to me—and I am certainly open to anything you care to confide. I consider it a privilege.”

Yes, yes,” he grumbled impatiently,” but you have to be on guard against privileged disclosures from anyone—including myself. I’m just a man, you know, and reserve the right to be wrong. Keep that in mind and you’ll do well.”

His disclaimer only fuelled my desire to open myself totally to him and his judgment.

He leaned back in his chair and eyed me narrowly. “I’m going to disclose to you the secret of my life, Gray—if you’re willing to an indulge an old man’s nostalgia on the eve of his retirement.”

My heart leapt within me—at last, the fulfillment of my ardent desire—to be privy to the secret of Victor’s success.

I could only nod mutely.

Victor signalled the waitress to drop two more drinks and waited until she left before beginning his story.

“I’m going to tell you a parable 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 attentive to 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 mesmerized me with his voice or perhaps in a mystic way there was some 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 the family titles and the entire 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 but then, unfortunately, was replaced by other celebrities who were now more appropriately seen as filling that role.

Victor’s voice rumbled on and I had to struggle past my bitterness to re-focus my attention on 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, and when he arrived, 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 to the ground, grasping a handful of long feather grass. But his feet had 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 he 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—he was certain no one would hear him.

He began absurdly to panic and shout all the same, 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’d 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 drink, 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 tumbler to the table.

“All for a taste of honey, eh Man? Seems so absurd doesn’t it? But we all 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 was part way out of my chair, but stopped–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 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, figuring out what must have 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, Master, I had no idea. Let me help you.”

He put the prince on his 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.

© 2016, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.