The words elated Sherlock. They had come into his mind sometime during the humid, warm May afternoon and he kept repeating them to himself over and over. 'Love in the dark. Love in the dark.'
He repeated them in five languages — Russian, French, Finnish, Italian and English — and decided that they sounded best in English. In each language they had a different meaning. A different kind of darkness. A different sort of love— the English dark seemed tender and full of unspoken promises in thick, heavy summer air. The English love felt the most fragile and romantic — flowers woven in golden hair and pale skin glowing faintly.
Sherlock was half Russian and half American. His mother was the daughter of that one James Jones who had brought the rallyesport to Monte Carlo, and his father was Prince Boris Romanoff , son of Prince Vladimir Romanov, and somehow related to the czar. It was all very impressive, a Villa in Riga, a summer estate in Monaco and stallions full of horses and home-schooled knowledge filling the brain of the youngest descendent of the Romanov family.
The Russians lived like royalty in the warm, sunny weeks of their staying at the summer residences in southern Europe. Of all the rich people that populated Monte Carlo in the happy, glamourous years before the war, the Russians were the most appreciative. While the french were more into nights spent in casinos and white wine at the shore and the British were simply too practical to enjoy the serene athmosphere, the Russians would live life as if they were Monaco's own aristocracy. When the Romanovs arrived at Monte Carlo late in February the maids and butlers telegraphed north for the Prince's favorite labels to send their best and richest champagne, and the jewelers put incredibly gorgeous articles aside to show to him, even the King of Monte Carlo would keep a couple of hourse free in his busy, over-filled schedule, only to see the Prince. And as if wanting to please the Prince and his family, the sea would paint itself in the most beautiful colours, mirroring the sky in the late evening when the sun would set.
It was a privileged paradise, this white little city on the water, in which he was free to do what he liked because he was rich and young and the blood of some mediocre idiot that ruled the country ran indigo in his veins. He was only seventeen in 1914, when this story takes place, but he had the knowledge of an old, well-educated man and the wit and good taste only men of royal descent seemed to possess.
But the question of love in the dark was the thing closest his heart. It was a vague pleasant delusion he had, something that was going to happen to him some day that would be exlusive and incomparable. He could have told no more about it than that there was a lovely unknown boy or girl concerned in it, and that it ought to take place beneath the Riviera moon on a warm, starlit night.
Though much young boys have hopes like these carried in their capricious, innocent hearts, the weird part of the story is, it actually came true.
And when it occurred, it happened so unexpectedly; it was such a mishmash of expectations and emotions, of impertinent phrases that tumbled off his lips, of scents and sounds and moments that were there, were lost, were gone, that he barely understood it at all. Perhaps its very ambiguity preserved it in his heart and made it impossible to forget.
There was an atmosphere of love surrounding him that spring — his father's love, for example, who would show his affection through unflattering comparisons and mean remarks on his failure. He knew very well how his father only wanted him to grow up into something big. A worthy member of the higher society.
His mother did not seem to comprehend the way Father was used to show his affection. More often than not Sherlock could see his mother crying soflty, weeping over a love she believed lost when she had no idea that the cold, harsh way his Father threated her was nothing more than a shield.
One day he could again hear the distant cry of his mother screaming at her husband because of something he had said, or done.
Sherlock tiptoed away, surprised, confused — and thrilled. It didn't shock him as it would have shocked a south-European boy of his age. He had known since birth what life was among the Continental rich, and he convicted his father solely for making his mother cry.
Love went on around him — unrequited, illicit and perfect all alike. As he walked along the seaside promenade at half ten, when the stars were bright enough to compete with the bright lights, he was aware of the love all around him. From the cafés, filled with women wearing dresses just down from Paris, came a heavy but sweet odour of flowers and chanel and fresh black coffee and newly lit cigarettes — and among with them all, mingled with them all, he caught another scent, the mysterious elating and seducing scent of love. Hands touched jewel-sparkling hands upon the satin clothed tables. Colourfull dresses and white shirt fronts were pressed together while their owners swayed to the slow, sultry music, and matches were held, trembling slightly, to light the white, menthol cigarettes. On the other side of the boulevard lovers less fashionable, young Frenchmen who worked in the stores of Monte Carlo, embraced and kissed their fiancées under the trees, but Sherlock's young eyes rarely turned towards them. The luxury of music and flashy neon colours and low voices — they were all part of his dream. They were the essential components of Love in the Dark.
And though he kept the straight face you would expect of a young, royal Russian man walking down the boulevard, Sherlock was beginning to feel sad. April seemed long gone, March was on its way back home, the season was almost over, and he had found no usage in the dark, dusty spring evenings. The girls and boys of sixteen and seventeen whom he was acquaintanced, were accompanied by maids and chaperones from dusk til dawn, and the others who might have wanted to stroll alongside him were of no importance to him at all. So April passed by — one week, two weeks, three weeks —
He had played tennis until seven and stayed at the courts for another hour, so it was half-past eight when an exhausted cab horse accomplished the hill on which shimmered the façade of the Romanov villa. The lights of his mother's limousine were lit faint yellow in the drive, and the princess, was just coming out the frontdoor. Sherlock tossed four francs to the cabbie and went to kiss her on the cheek.
"Don't touch me," she said quickly. "You're all sweaty."
"But not in my mouth, mother," he protested dryly.
The princess rewarded his witty response with an impatient glare.
"I'm disappointed," she said. "Why must you be so late tonight? We're dining on a yacht and we were planning on taking you with us."
"What yacht?"
"Americans." There was always a faint hint of despise coulouring her voice when she talked about the land of her nativity. Her America was the dust of the southern states, boring and dead. Even the mood swings and coldness of her husband hadn't kept her from fleeding her country.
"Two yachts," she continued; "in fact we have no idea which one. The note was terribly vague. Very American indeed."
Americans. Sherlock's mother had taught him to look down on Americans, but she hadn't succeeded in making him dislike them. American men noticed you, even if you were merely seventeen. He liked Americans. They would talk to him, engage him in interesting conversations. Although he was thoroughly Russian he did not believe in the famous hate on Americans. He guessed the patriotism passes a generation on his mother's side.
"I want to come," he said, "I'll hurry up, mother. I'll jus— "
"We're late now." The princess turned as her husband appeared behind her. "Now Sherlock says he wants to come."
"He can't," said Prince Boris shortly. "He's shamelessly late. He would keep us waiting and we would all arrive last-minute."
Sherock nodded. Russian aristocrats were always flawlessly disciplined with their offspring. There was no room, nor time for arguments.
"I'm sorry," he muttered.
Prince Boris grunted. The driver, in red and gold clothing, opened the limousine door. But somehow his mother was affected by the grunt of the Prince, as the princess turned around - probably tired of the jumble of emotions her husband lived through every day - and looked at him sharply.
"On second thought you'd better come, Sherlock," she announced coldly. "It's too late now, but come after dinner. The yacht is either the Duchess or the Presidential." She got into the automobile. "The one to come to will be the noisier, merrier one, I suppose — the Cary's yacht — "
"Please, prove yourself smart enough to find the right one," his father said. "Have my man take a look at you before you even think of departing. Wear a tie of mine instead of that hideous string you showed off in Cannes. Grow up. Show some class."
As the car drove down the uneven drive Sherlock's face was burning.