Christmas Joy
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Dorian opened the door to his apartment. “I can’t find my gloves,” he said, looking at the empty hallway and then over at the small table by the window where he’d last seen them. He frowned as he turned back toward the stairs but then stopped in his tracks when something caught his eye from across the street.
His eyes followed it around a corner before they dropped down again, only to rise up again with an odd sort of feeling.
He walked over to the window and looked out into the night. The windows on either side of him were dark, but the light spilling into the stairwell made Dorian’s eyes widen. Suddenly he was aware that his heart had begun to pound in his chest.
He swallowed hard as his eyes moved back and forth between each of the windows, trying to make sense of what he saw there. It took several seconds for him to realize that whatever was moving toward him. His breath grew heavier as he watched it come closer. Then he heard someone whisper: “It’s almost time.”
The figure came into view, standing tall against the evening sky. Dorian blinked once, twice more, then stared for a few long moments. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. But then he remembered how many times he’d gone out on Halloween dressed like this—the cloak flapping behind him, the hood pulled low over his head, the face hidden beneath the mask. Was it possible?
“It’s you?” he whispered.
There was no answer; only silence and the faint sound of footsteps. Dorian stepped away from the window and closed the curtains. He was about to turn around when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped and spun around, nearly falling backward onto the floor. When he looked up, he found himself staring into the eyes of a man who wore the same mask as all those years ago.
“How did you know I was here?” Dorian asked.
The masked man didn’t respond right away. Instead, he continued to stare at Dorian. Dorian wondered if the other man was even breathing. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the man spoke.
“You don’t remember me,” Dorian said.
“I do,” the man replied.
“Then why won’t you let me—”
“Close your mouth,” the man said. “And listen.”
Dorian remained silent.
“You’re not the first person I’ve met tonight,” the man went on. “But you are the most important. You have been chosen for a special task. And I will need your help.”
Dorian stood motionless, waiting to hear what else the stranger had to say. But his words never came. Suddenly the man vanished, leaving Dorian alone with his thoughts.
He stood in the middle of the room for several minutes, lost in thought until finally, he decided to go upstairs and get ready for bed. As he headed toward the staircase, he noticed that one of the windows was open. He crept over to it, barely able to see anything through the thick layer of snow covering the glass.
From inside, he could hear the sound of voices. He listened carefully, but soon became distracted by the noise coming from below. When he looked down, he found that the Christmas tree had been set up in the living room and was decorated with lights. Had he brought it home already?
He reached out to touch the window glass. It was cold to the touch, so he wrapped his hands around it instead. Slowly, he pulled it aside. Then he slipped out onto the roof and peered over the edge.
He found that the group of people below had gathered together at the far end of the rooftop, just outside the door leading to the building’s garage. They were all facing the door, their backs turned to him. He could hear them whispering to each other.
What’s going on? he wondered. What is everyone doing here?
Slowly, he backed away from the ledge and climbed back inside. Then he got ready for bed. After brushing his teeth, he walked into the bedroom and began to dress for bed.
“This is crazy,” he said aloud. “What am I supposed to be doing, anyway?”
No one answered him.
He pulled on his pajamas and crawled under the covers, closing his eyes to try to fall asleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, he tossed and turned in his bed, unable to escape the memories of the past or the strange sensations he’d experienced earlier that night.
Finally, he gave up and sat up. Then, still in his pajamas, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“Yes?” a woman said.
“Hello,” Dorian repeated. “Is this the house next door?”
“That’s correct,” the woman replied. “Who is this?”
“My name is Dorian,” he told her. “I’m new in town, and I was wondering if you could tell me what’s going on.”
“No one is allowed to enter the building,” she explained. “Especially anyone who looks like you.”
“Why?” he asked.
“We don’t know,” she replied. “We haven’t seen you before.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, growing angry. “Where is everyone?”
“They’re all in the basement,” she told him.
“What are they doing?” he asked, his voice rising.
“Nothing,” she said. “They’re just sitting there.”
“But why?” he demanded. “What’s happening?”
She paused for a moment. Dorian heard the sound of keys jingling and then the click-click of heels on the tile. The woman must have gotten off the phone. He waited, listening to the sounds of her footsteps fading into the distance. Before long, he couldn’t make out any more of her words.
“Do you still want to know?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“All right,” she said. “For a small price, I’ll tell you everything.”
“What kind of price?” he asked.
“Well, you could give me a kiss.”
“A kiss?” he gasped. “How much?”
“It depends on how good it is.”
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“Deadly,” she replied.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
“Good,” she said. “The price is now twelve thousand dollars. And I can only take cash.”
“Twelve thousand dollars!” he exclaimed.
“If you don’t have it, we’ll just have to wait while you find some,” she said. “You’ve got about ten minutes.”
“So what do I have to do?” he asked.
“Just come over,” she said. “Bring your money and meet me at the entrance.”
“And… if I don’t show up?” he asked.
“Then I won’t tell you anything,” she explained. “That’s the way it works. Now hurry! We’re waiting for you.”
Dorian hung up the phone without another word. He put it on his nightstand, lay back down in bed, and closed his eyes.
In the darkness, he tried to think about something else. Anything else.
He thought about the strange sensation he’d felt when he woke up that morning. Had someone been watching him? Was it possible that there was someone else in the city? Someone who didn’t belong?
He shook his head. No, that wasn’t possible. There was no one else in the world except himself and the girl next door. Everyone else was dead.
He drifted off to sleep, and the last thing he remembered before falling asleep was thinking about a boy named Dorian Gray who lived in a house with a secret room.
***
The next morning, Dorian woke up late. It was the first time he’d slept in so long. He looked at the clock beside his bed. It was 10:30 A.M., and he had an appointment with his lawyer at noon. He quickly threw on his clothes and ran downstairs. When he opened the front door, he realized something was wrong.
There was a man standing in the living room wearing a suit and tie.
“Mr. Gray?” the man asked. “I’m Detective Cooper from the Chicago Police Department.”
Dorian froze. His heart pounded as he stared at the detective.
“I saw you leave yesterday evening,” the detective continued. “I assumed you were heading home, but I just wanted to check to see if you made it.”
“I’m sorry,” Dorian stammered. “Did I forget something?”
“No,” the detective replied. “We just need a few minutes of your time.”
“Of course,” Dorian replied. “Come on in.”
He led the detective into the living room. They sat down on the sofa. The detective took out a notebook and started flipping through pages.
“First of all,” the detective began, “can you tell me your full name?”
“Dorian Grey,” Dorian replied.
“Okay,” the detective said. “Can you tell me where you grew up?”
“Chicago,” Dorian replied.
“Ah, yes,” the detective said. “This is a personal question, Mr. Gray, but I just need to confirm something.”
“Go ahead,” Dorian said.
“We know that you’re a member of the elite society,” the detective said. “Have you ever met a man by the name of Lord Henry Wotton?”
“No,” Dorian said. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“I’m afraid not,” the detective said. “In fact, I would say he’s rather… dangerous.”
“Really?” Dorian asked. “What makes you say that?”
“Well,” the detective said. “As I understand it, he’s the leader of the organization known as the Order of Nine Angles. Do you know anything about them?”
“Not really,” Dorian said. “I’ve heard rumors, but I never knew their true identity.”
“They used to be called the Knights Templar,” the detective explained. “But they changed their name after King Phillip IV of France ordered the arrest and execution of all knights in 1307.”
“That must have been terrible,” Dorian said. “How did it happen?”
“It was in Paris,” the detective explained. “The king had several members of the Order arrested and executed during the Feast of Fools. Another group of knights under the leadership of Jacques de Molay, the Grand Master of the Templars, escaped the massacre and fled to the Holy Land.
When they arrived in Jerusalem, however, they found that King Philip had already invaded. After fighting the army for three days, the remaining knights were captured and thrown into prison.”
“Were any of them saved?” Dorian asked.
“Yes,” the detective said. “Two men managed to escape, but they were pursued by the royal guards until they reached the coast. Once they were safe on the beach, they decided to take advantage of the opportunity and return to Europe. They sailed across the Mediterranean Sea and landed on the coast of Southern France. That’s where they established the Order of Nine Angles.”
“Interesting,” Dorian said.
“Unfortunately, that’s all we know,” the detective said. “Lord Henry Wotton disappeared shortly after he left the United States. We have no idea what happened to him or where he went. But we do know that he has a very close connection to the Order of Nine Angles.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you think he might be a member of this secret society?” Dorian asked.
“I don’t know,” the detective said. “But I do know that he’s connected somehow. Now, can you tell me why you went to New York City last night?”
“My fiancée is there,” Dorian said. “She’s in a play.”
“You said you were engaged?”
“Yes,” Dorian replied.
“Where is she right now? In the theater?”
“Actually, yes,” Dorian said. “She’s performing in a stage production of Romeo and Juliet.”
“Oh,” the detective said. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“It’s okay,” Dorian replied. “I should probably get going.”
“Wait,” the detective said. “There’s one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Did you know anything about the murder of Tristan Crane?”
Dorian hesitated. He’d told his story the day before, but he wasn’t sure how much he could reveal. It was easy enough to admit that he’d seen the body—he’d practically confessed to that when he walked into the police station. But how far did he want to go with this?
“I overheard the news on my way to work,” the detective said. “I was curious if you had any information about it.”
“Not really,” Dorian said.
“What do you know about it?”
“I found the body,” Dorian said.
“Are you sure you weren’t involved in the crime?”
“Of course, I’m not sure,” Dorian said. “Why would I kill someone like that?”
“Because he broke your heart?”
“I don’t know,” Dorian said. “Probably not.”
“Any chance you know who killed him?”
“No,” Dorian said. “I haven’t even seen the body yet.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Dorian said. “And I don’t know anything else about it.”
“All right then,” the detective said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Vale.”
“I appreciate it,” Dorian said. “I’ll try to call you later today.”
“If you find anything out, please let me know,” the detective said. “I’m very interested in finding out who killed that man.”
“Good luck,” Dorian said.
***
Dorian sat down at his desk and opened the mail, but none of it was important. Then he checked his e-mail, but there was nothing new from Celia or anyone else. Finally, he opened the door and went downstairs to the library.
He stood in front of the bookshelves and tried to remember what he’d read yesterday. But instead of finding inspiration, he found himself staring blankly at the shelves for long minutes.
Finally, he gave up and went back upstairs. He picked up his phone and dialed the number for the New York Public Library.
“May I help you?” asked a woman’s voice.
“Yes,” Dorian said. “Is there any way you can search the card catalogs for the titles listed on these index cards?”
“Certainly,” the woman said. “Would you like me to search for those items in the main library or our other branches?”
“How many locations are there?” Dorian asked.
“We have nearly four thousand locations,” the woman said. “That includes all of our public libraries as well as a dozen of our special research libraries. You may find the following list useful.”
She recited a long list of branch addresses and telephone numbers.
“Thanks,” Dorian said. “I’ll see you soon.”
He hung up and looked through the window to the street below. The sun had set and the traffic was light. A few people walked along the sidewalk, but there wasn’t anything unusual about them. He stared at the blinking lights of the cars passing by.
A moment later, he saw a familiar figure walking toward the building, heading in the same direction as Dorian. He called out to her and waved.
“Who are you calling?” Celia asked.
“I thought I recognized you,” Dorian said. “Wasn’t that you just now?”
“Yeah,” Celia said. “We ran into each other on the street.”
“So how was the play?”
“It was… interesting,” Celia said. She paused and then looked away. “It was really good. I liked it a lot.”
“Did you meet your fiancée?”
“No,” Celia said. “But I talked to another friend of mine who was in the audience.”
“What did she think?”
“She said it was okay,” Celia said. “Nothing spectacular.”
“Did you talk to Tristan after the show?” Dorian asked.
“No,” Celia said. “I didn’t want to bother him. He seemed to be busy.”
“Busy with what?”
“I don’t know,” Celia said. “He never really said much about his life.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No,” Celia said. “Does he live here in the city?”
“I don’t know,” Dorian said. “I guess I should ask him next time I see him.”
“Okay,” Celia said.
They both fell silent for a while. They watched the streetlights flicker on one by one.
“Well, I better go,” Celia said. “Good night.”
“See you around,” Dorian said.
Celia waved goodbye and walked away. Dorian watched her until she turned the corner.
He stayed in the library for three hours looking through books on the history of art. When he finished, his mind felt clearer than it had since he woke up.
He took the subway uptown to the Museum of Modern Art. He found the section devoted to modern sculpture and started reading about the work of Auguste Rodin.
The museum was nearly empty. He wandered through the halls, stopping occasionally to admire some of the more famous works. He spent a long time staring at a bronze statue of a naked woman, which reminded him of the statue of Diana in the garden of Hephaestus, the god who created fire.
After an hour or so, he left the museum and walked across Central Park. The snow had stopped falling during the day. It lay scattered on the ground like powdery diamonds. He stood at the edge of the park and stared at the water, wondering if he could see the reflection of the stars in the surface.
His phone rang. He flipped it open and saw that it was Celia. He answered.
“Are you still out?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” Dorian said. “I haven’t been outside yet.”
“You sound different,” Celia said. “What is it? Are you feeling better?”
“I don’t know,” Dorian said. “I’ve been thinking about something.”
“What?”
“I don’t remember much about my childhood,” Dorian said.
“Really?”
“My mother used to tell me stories from when I was a kid,” Dorian said. “About our house on the island. About how we would go swimming at the beach, and how she’d watch the sunset over the ocean every night.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen,” Dorian said. “Maybe fifteen.”
“Were you happy?”
“For a while,” Dorian said. “Then I started to get homesick.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know anyone else,” Dorian said. “There was no one to play with.”
“Where are you right now?” Celia asked.
“In the park,” Dorian said. “I wanted to look at the lake.”
“That’s strange,” Celia said. “Because I can see you right now.”
“Really?”
“Sure,” Celia said. “Can you see me?”
Dorian closed his eyes and tried to picture Celia. He imagined her sitting in front of the computer screen, typing. Her blue eyes peering over the top of her glasses. He pictured her hair—a soft brown color.
“Yes,” Dorian said. “I can see you.”
“I see you too,” Celia said. “And your face looks different now.”
“How do you mean?”
“Now you’re smiling,” Celia said. “What happened to make you smile?”
“I’m not sure,” Dorian said. “I just feel… better.”
“That’s good,” Celia said. “Do you want to come over and meet me?”
“Is that okay?”
“Of course,” Celia said. “I’ll be waiting.”
“All right,” Dorian said. “I’m leaving now.”
He hung up the phone and went back inside the museum. He made his way toward the sculpture department, but before he got there, he paused. He heard someone call his name. He looked around and saw Celia walking toward him.
She smiled when she saw him. As they approached each other, Dorian’s heart began to beat faster. He held out his hand.
“Hi,” he said.
Celia stepped forward and took his hand. She squeezed it lightly. Then she leaned closer, and their lips met.
Celia pulled away first. They kept their faces close together as they spoke.
“Did you have fun at the museum?” Dorian asked.
“Yeah,” Celia said. “It’s nice to be somewhere where no one knows us.”
“Me too,” Dorian said.
“So what did you think about the museum?” Celia asked.
“I liked the Rodin sculptures,” Dorian said.
“The artist?”
“No,” Dorian said. “The sculptures.”
“Oh,” Celia said. “Do you want to know more about them?”
“Sure,” Dorian said. “What else do you know?”
“Well,” Celia said. “Rodin was born in 1840 in Paris. His father was a sculptor, but he died when Rodin was young. So he had to help support his family by working odd jobs. When he became older, he decided to become an apprentice for a sculptor named Auguste Rodin.”
“Was he famous?” Dorian asked.
“Not really,” Celia said. “But he was very gifted, and in his own time, he was considered to be the greatest sculptor who ever lived.”
“Really?” Dorian said. “Who was his favorite sculptor?”
“Michelangelo,” Celia said.
“Oh,” Dorian said. “Did you know Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome?”
“I did,” Celia said. “I’ve seen pictures.”
“Have you been to Rome?” Dorian asked.
“No,” Celia said. “I haven’t traveled much. Do you like traveling?”
“I don’t hate it,” Dorian said. “But I don’t love it either.”
“Why don’t you travel?” Celia asked.
“My father wouldn’t let me,” Dorian said.
“Why not?”
Dorian sighed. It was hard to explain. In some ways, it felt easier just to say nothing.
“Okay,” Celia said. “If you prefer, we could talk about something else.”
“No,” Dorian said. “I’d rather keep talking about it.”
“Okay,” Celia said. “Tell me what else you know about Michelangelo.”
Dorian told her about how Michelangelo became a sculptor at age eighteen. He described the beauty of Michelangelo’s paintings and sculptures. He talked about how Michelangelo created the statues of David and Moses for the Vatican.
“I think he must have been incredible,” Celia said.
“I agree,” Dorian said. “When Michelangelo died, people mourned him as if he were a god. But even though he was famous, he didn’t live in luxury.”
“Why not?” Celia asked.
“Because he gave most of his money away,” Dorian said. “He donated so many works of art to the churches that he built.”
“Wow,” Celia said. “Did he give all of his work away?”
“Only part of it,” Dorian said. “Most of it is in museums today.”
“Isn’t that amazing?” Celia said. “To be remembered like that after you die? That must have been wonderful.”
“Yes,” Dorian said. “But the best thing about Michelangelo wasn’t the fame or the money. The best thing about him was his talent. He loved doing what he did. And he worked really hard at it.”
The End