Angel of Death. Christian Russell

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      Every time he woke up he felt overwhelmed by guilt and by the desire to whip himself. He simply couldn’t understand why the person he held dearest couldn’t break the dream barrier. And he promised that in the first dream about his childhood his brother would be the main character. But when that happened, his brother either didn’t show up at all or played an insignificant part. And, again, Daniel would feel guilty and repentant.

      But that had only been the case until recently. Now, although Daniel’s charisma still didn’t haunt his dreams, he ceased to blame himself. His expiation had taken place once the ‘Island’ had been made. For the memory of the elder brother had been the main reason behind it. He opened the door to the big room and slipped inside with the feeling he had just discovered a time break and managed to enter a parallel world.

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      Friday, October 30

      As the taxi was taking them to Greenwich Village, Mark realized he had been thinking of this evening almost continuously for the past ten days. He told the driver to stop the car somewhere on 13th Street. He was wearing a large cloak and a top hat. A vampire mask had also been offered to him but he thought it beyond his dignity to wear it. The day before he had contacted a friend who owned a flower shop in Chinatown so now he was holding three splendid orchids, nicely wrapped, in his hand. They were the most beautiful flowers he had ever seen. At the bottom of the small plastic bucket was a box of fine chocolates.

      The villa was built in Tudor style, not nearly as big as the senator’s residence but the architect had proved excellent taste. Although the sun hadn’t set in yet a lot of children in costumes were all over the street holding pumpkin lanterns in their hands. They were cheering, shouting and fighting over the candy. Mark rang the doorbell. A few seconds later the door opened and Dorothy appeared looking more beautiful and glamorous than ever. The man noticed her evening gown, plain but extremely elegant.

      “Trick or treat?” he asked holding the flowers behind his back.

      “Treat, of course,” she said cheerfully. “Come on in and I’ll fill your little bucket.”

      She took him by the hand and led him in. They crossed the long hallway and entered a large luxurious living-room. The agent was carefully treading on the Buhara rug in which his shoes were almost sinking. Dorothy pulled him to her. They had a long kiss.

      “I’ve brought you flowers and candy,” he said.

      She saw the orchids and said excitedly. “Mark, they’re absolutely surreal! They must have cost you a fortune!” She took and unwrapped them, then looked around for a vase. She took an Etruscan vase from the table and put the flowers in gently. “Thank you, Mark. They are incredibly beautiful.”

      “I thought so too when I saw them in the window. But they’re just weeds when compared to you.”

      The actress looked at him in surprise. “You never cease to amaze me. Every time I see you I find out something new about you. The first time I admired your courage and skill. The second time, at the reception, I learned you were a great hockey player and you have a good sense of humor. Now I see you’ve got a poetic side as well.”

      “Oh, no. I really can’t recite any Longfellow poems.”

      “You don’t need to,” Dorothy said and led him to the long table in the center of the room which was laid for celebration. The plates, the silverware, the napkins, and the candlesticks were in perfect order.

      “I’ve given the maid the day off and decided to take care of everything myself,” she boasted. “Including the lasagna.”

      Mark noticed a dusty bottle of wine in the middle of the table. He picked it up to read the label. “Château D’Yquem—1944,” he murmured admiringly. “It’s only heads of state that get to drink something like this.”

      Dorothy slapped her forehead, upset. “Damn! I forgot all about it. Uncle Henry dropped by and left it for me. Give it to me! I’ll put it in a glass case, we’ll take care of it some other time, OK?”

      “Sure.”

      They sat down next to each other at the table which was filled with appetizers.

      “The lasagna’s in the oven,” the young woman announced. “Until it’s ready we can talk some more. With you in that Halloween costume and me in this evening gown I feel so self-conscious.”

      “I’m dressed like this because just before coming here I did a little trick-or-treat with my kid, Tommy.”

      “You have a little boy? How old is he?”

      “Six. And he’s a great kid, good and smart. The apple of my eye. The only reason why my marriage didn’t end years ago.”

      “Still, it’s coming to an end now,” she reminded him. “What’s changed?”

      “I realized the boy can’t be a permanent witness to our fights. Sharing his affection seems a better solution.”

      “Is your wife such a bitch?” the actress asked distrustfully.

      He heaved a deep sigh. “She is now. She wasn’t like that in the beginning. She was a reporter with The New Yorker and came to interview me at the hospital. A couple of months later we were married. And I must admit, everything went fine the first year. Then, step by step, she began to show her pragmatism, her cold, strict nature.”

      “Maybe that was only your impression! A woman doesn’t change like that overnight.”

      Mark realized that she was challenging him. She probably wanted to know as many details as possible about his marriage, to get to know him better. He faked giving in to her and went on, “Look, like any other teenager I had my good-luck charm, a kind of porte-bonheur. Mine was a poster I had found in an old Paris Match issue, a scene from the ’Nam War. On the platform of an armored car were five wounded, half-naked marines. They had defended the Khe Sanh base in January ’68. To me that picture had a special meaning. Three weeks later in the course of the same attack initiated by the Viet Cong guerillas during the Tet holidays Uncle Paul’s bomber was shot down. His body was never found. He rotted in the Nam jungle somewhere. I wanted to keep my spiritual link with Uncle Paul through those men. They might have met him. They might have been friends. Three of the marines were lying on the platform. Another guy with his head and chest bandaged was sitting, holding the head of the fifth one on his knees. The boy with the bandaged head, bleeding, incredibly pale, found the strength to hold the other guys’ IV bags up. The pale young man who was staring into space with his big black eyes became the hero of my youth. Whenever I went through a rough time or felt overwhelmed by something, I drew near that poster and looked at him. I said to myself: What is your trouble, Mark, as compared to the suffering of this John Doe? And immediately, as if by some empathic transfer, I felt a wave of energy and optimism growing in me. I carried that poster everywhere I went: to high school, college, even Quantico. When I built my own house, that was the first thing I brought into my study. One day, a year or so after we got married, I saw Cathy looking carefully at that poster. She then wrote something in her notebook. I guess she wrote down their dog tags. A week later, while I was working in my study, I got the feeling something had changed. I looked at the poster and saw something written on it. Under each soldier there were names, dates and crosses. Thus I learned that the three men on the platform died on the same day, January 21st, 1968, at the central hospital in Da Nang. The one with his head on the knees of the IV guy made it to the States СКАЧАТЬ