La Lune Blanche
by
Lara Biyuts
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Lara Biyuts on Smashwords
La Lune Blanche
Copyright © 2010 by Lara Biyuts
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
* * * * *
La Lune Blanche
“Oh, beloved.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Let us dream, now is the hour.”
(Paul Verlaine, The White Moon)
Part 1. George
“Blue birds from the bluest fable,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Peacock moth on picnic table.”
(V. Nabokov)
“…Hermes acted as a messenger of the gods and a deity of wealth, trade and travelers. His winged sandals named ‘talaria’…” Here the boy took his eyes off the book, looked up straight before him and fell to thinking. The past turned into the air around the desk, flashed over the varnish of the Japan casket and marble nudity of the statue, lay down underfoot as a carpet, rose at the door, and like a last small echo it died away in his bosom. He had begun to recollect only recently, and every time he recalled the first meeting with his friend, his thoughts carried him away, to the dim and distant past--three years ago. Over the last year, more than once, he was carried away in recollection. At present, it was such a special time in his life, when the fears, which tormented formerly, had left his life as well as his mind. Vanishing, the fears turned into some dissolving visions and images, more or less nebulous, dimming and rolling away like a mist and disappearing in the blue serene stream of his life. Now, reading, he got lost in a reverie, as it was often--but not for long--and often over the last year, he read books, which could helped him to go up the blue serene stream. He cast his eyes down and continued reading: “…The Phoenix, completely burning up and resurrecting from one’s own ashes…”
At present, he had calmed down mentally so much that he could recollect--recollecting all and at ease. Recalling his past for the first time, retracing their first meeting, he realized that his way towards his love had begun long before the day in early August, when he and his friend first saw each other in Rome. Actually, it all had begun two months before in England, shortly before his birthday.
Abuse
Sirius rose, the dog-days began, and on July 26th the boy was eleven. It was the last year of his life in the Lindenridge Park. Recalling that year, he thought a little more and made a surprising discovery: he had learned of his friend only thanks to Uncle George, so it turned out that Jocelyn Lindenridge’s Love Story began even earlier, in the spring of that year, when Uncle George came in his life. But the boy disliked recalling Uncle George’s coming in his life. There were only a few events he disliked recalling, and one of them was the meeting with George Ravinebrooke, his uncle from America. One day, in a rest-hour, the boy told his friend about it--in fact, to his friend the boy could refuse nothing--and he told about much, about what he would prefer to forget recalling never again. In that May, Uncle George acceded to the estate Lindenridge Park, where Jocelyn lived. The estate was the mansion in Georgian and small picturesque land, which was all what remained from the precinct of former times. George Ravinebrooke received the Lindenridge Park as a legacy from Jocelyn’s father, Viscount Lindenridge who died several months ago. George Ravinebrooke was not in need of the mansion or the land, therefore right after he had had the estate in his possession, he started negotiations with a hotel consortium for delivery of the estate in rent. Onlookers, who could see the American’s activity, could think that a kind relative helped his little ward, who had become an orphan recently, that the American helped to manage with the affairs of the legacy of the orphan. But it was not so. In fact, Uncle George who was worth many millions, disposed of his own property here in Midlands, because he was the chief legatee of the late viscount. And Jocelyn had inherited from his father nothing but the title. According to the will, the boy had got only a lawful minimum of money, and all the rest property was left to the cousin of his father, whom the late viscount never saw in flesh and he hardly could experience a relative’s feeling to the American. Having got the English estate as a legacy, the American millionaire was about to start it up in business so that it would be profitable like all the rest real estate he had. Along with the troubles connected with the estate, George Ravinebrooke had to accept the duty to care about his cousin nephew. Then, in May, he first met this pretty 10-year-old boy whose the only next of kin he had become.
Being in a good mind to transfer the Lindenridge Park to a hotel consortium for rent, George Ravinebrooke had begun negotiations with the consortium yet he hung them up for a while, because having a look at this beautiful estate, ancient mansion and spacious shady park around, he felt like spending a part of the summer here. Also by this time, he knew how much his little nephew disliked leaving home, and he permitted the boy to celebrate the birthday here, in the house where the boy was born--to do it for the last time. After the celebrating of the boy’s birthday and finishing all the business, George Ravinebrooke was about to return to America.
The servants of the castle were dismissed soon after the new owner had arrived. George Ravinebrooke had come in England along with his cook who also was his majordomo. Presently, the only servants who kept the household of the estate were the cook, one bodyguard and a two day-laborers. And the boy got used to this change fairly well. From under the wing of his mother’s help he passed to the guardianship of his unmarried uncle and he felt fairly well at his uncle’s household, all the more that the mode of life of his uncle was perfectly arranged, and being all found the young boy easily found his place there. On the day of Uncle’s arrival, while talking to him, Uncle shortened Jocelyn’s name and called him “J”. The boy got used to this too. It was in early May.
That day, everyone expected the arrival of the new master and all the inhabitants of the castle, with the attorney Mr Clifton as a head, went out to meet the American. The silvery-gray Lexus passed the alley of old, dark cedar-trees and stopped in front of the house. George got out of the car. Showing his noticeable stature, he drew himself up, glanced round the white facade of the house and people crowding near the baroque staircase and held out his hand to Mr Clifton, who approached with warm welcomes. They exchanged a few greeting phrases, and then Miss Greene brought Jocelyn up to his American uncle. George looked at the curly-haired child wearing a blue jeans and crimson sweater, with a white collar visible in the cut of the sweater, and wishing to define more precisely that that was his nephew and not a strange girl he asked, “Are you Jocelyn?”
“Yes, sir!” The boy was all eyes.