PROLOGUE
Miami, Florida – Present Time
The silver rays of the October sun seemed to glide upon the ocean, reflecting a gradual sky, creating dark, infinite undulations that melted with the horizon. I was one with the horizon, lost in contemplation, hovering between dream and reality when security rang. I told the guard to let the woman through. Her telephone call the previous day had been most disturbing: “My name is Cecilia Von Hagen, I was a friend of your father. “I’m sorry”, I replied, “but my parents died when I was very young and…” She cut me off: “I will bring you proof, expect me tomorrow at seven.” She hung up. Her tone had been firm, unequivocal and it sent chills down my spine. And here she was, pulling up in a mint green Jaguar, on time.
I open the door before she can ring the bell. Her long black hair accentuates the perfection of her ageless silhouette, wrapped in a blood red, ankle length silk dress that lands on two minuscule feet laced in Roman style sandals. She wears very little, if any make-up, her alabaster skin illuminated by two piercing jade green eyes atop an aquiline nose that shadows voluptuous purple lips. As our eyes lock, a twitch transpierces her gaze. “You look just as I had imagined you”, she says, both her manicured hands clutching a small, beaded black purse. I silently motion her to come in and she seems to glide past me. Stopping in the middle of the living room she looks around, as if hovering to find her equilibrium and center herself. Slowly she ambles to the bay window facing the ocean. “Finally”, she says. Not knowing what she means, I am aware of the intensity of her presence: her energy makes me uncomfortable. She turns around and walks past me towards the fireplace. “Can I offer you something?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “Yes, water, please” she replies before slowly sitting down in my favorite chair, a gold leaf trimmed Napoleon III. I make my way over to the marble counter where the refreshments are. The ice cubes crack loudly as I pour water over them, as if to warn me or rather to confirm that the danger that I sense in the company of this woman is real. She obviously wants something but what? I glance over my shoulder. Cecilia Von Hagen, whoever she may be, sits there, equanimous, calm, absent-mindedly twirling the large Egyptian ring on the middle finger of her left hand as she inspects the objects that make up the décor of my daily life. The track lights seem to bounce off her pearl nail polish like minuscule lasers. Handing her the glass, I sit across from her. As she admires the eleventh century Tonka above the fireplace I interject “So you knew my father?” “Yes” she says, offering no further explanation. “Where and when did you know him?” She sips on her water, taking her time, letting her intense magnetism fill the air between us. “You think you know me but you can’t quite place me, isn’t it so?” It’s my turn to remain silent. “Your memory must not be as good as you think it is”, she says condescendingly. I politely point out that memory is a faculty that forgets. “Please spare me the bullshit!” The sudden change in her tone and vocabulary, neither of which fit her appearance nor her demeanor, is totally impromptu. She gets up and walks back to the bay window. As she brushes past me, I am overwhelmed by her scent, an ethereal blend of gardenia and bergamot, and from the depths of my psyche, a torrent of childhood memories come over me.
As an infant and young child, my mother had been the whole world to me since my father was away most of the time. I remember holding her hand, walking down the corridors of a desolate castle with torches lining the walls. Mother often said that life is a labyrinth from where most people never find their way out. Then I saw myself lying in bed at night, trying to see in the dark, unable to sleep. When that happened, my mother would put her hands on my stomach and emit an eerie sound, the dream sound, she used to call it. Suddenly I felt transported to another place, back in the green house where my mother had died. There she was, sitting in her chair, a peaceful smile on her face. I could remember pulling on her sleeve, trying to call her back from the eternal slumber she had just slipped into.
“You remember, don’t you, Simon?” the woman said, waking me from the reverie as if reading my mind by the thought. I realized what she had just called me: Simon. That name belonged to another me, a me that had come so far, it no longer had the luxury to let memories linger and interfere with the present let alone the future. As she turned around, I stood up to face her. “What do you want?” “I want what’s mine, Simon, nothing more, nothing less”. The depth of her eyes reached the far corners of my soul; I felt sick to my stomach. This woman knows, I told myself, she knows who I am. If she is not lying, she would be the only one alive to know my real identity, my true self. No, it was impossible. I bluffed: “Frankly I have no idea what you’re talking about”.
Slowly she walked towards me. Her lanky fingers opened the small black purse and pulled out a small wrinkled, yellow envelope and out of it, with the dexterity of a magician, she produced a lock of blond hair. Grabbing my right arm, she put the hair in the palm of my hand, closed it in a fist, her own hand firmly over mine to seal the contact. A rush of heat pulsated through my body as if I were experiencing the moment of death when the life review begins, showing one every single action one has ever performed, allowing you to relive every emotion that has ever emanated from your soul in a couple of minutes. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath trying to slow down the cascade of images flooding my mind.
“You were such a special child, Simon, and you know this is your own hair, I died with it sown in my scapular.” Those words stopped the vision instantaneously and I barely regained my composure. “Who are you?” I asked as our eyes locked in a dimension beyond time and space. “Well, I’m your mother, of course!” she said.
Chapter I
Paris, France - 1662
Louis XIV was born on September 5, 1638. Upon the death of his father Louis XIII, he became King of France in 1643 at the age of five. During his minority, the country was formally ruled by the Queen Mother, Anne of Austria and by Cardinal Mazarin a protégé of the late Cardinal Richelieu. In 1661, upon the death of Cardinal Mazarin, Louis XIV, then twenty-three, assumed the full power of the throne. The previous year, the young man had married Princess Maria-Teresa, heiress to the Spanish Dominions, also known as the Infanta. Their alliance was one that Cardinal Mazarin and the Queen Mother had spent years arranging. Such a pact ascertained the balance of power between France’s territories and the Austrian Empire controlled by the House of Hapsburgs.
In 1662, the Queen bore the King a son, François Couperin, who would be known as Le Dauphin. The heir to the crown of France would be outlived by his father the King and would never ascend to the throne. But, on this beautiful day, to celebrate the birth of their son François Couperin, Le Dauphin, Louis XIV and Queen Maria-Teresa hosted a ball at the Palais des Tuileries. The event drew fifteen thousand people from all over the continent.
The day started in Versailles, which at the time was nothing more than a royal hunting lodge surrounded by military encampments and thick forest. The full-fledged palace that it is today would be completed by 1682 and become then the main royal residence. At mid-day a column of soldiers surrounded by street artists, musicians and dancers filed out of the gates of the park. A crowd of hundreds had gathered there to watch fire eaters, acrobats and saltimbanques as they created an atmosphere of delirious celebration around the royal procession.
The first of the open-top carriages decorated in red and gold bore the seal of its passengers, King Philip IV of Spain and his wife Queen Mariana, the maternal grandparents of Le Dauphin. By then, King Philip IV was in his sixties, a thin man in a long, ornate, red redingote whose pale and skinny face seemed to disappear under his big, dark and curly wig. He seemed unaffected by the commotion around him, unlike his third wife Queen Mariana, who was in her late twenties. She wore a green, jeweled dress that sparkled to the point of practically blinding the on-lookers at whom she waved profusely. In the second carriage the Queen Mother, Anne of Austria, held her head high and stoically looked in the distance as her gold dress filled the carriage and shined like a second sun. The third carriage was the pièce de résistance: a giant glass egg with gold-framed open windows on each side. In it, nestled in a white ermine pillow lies Le Dauphin amidst large royal blue velvet cushions, encased by four glass walls held together by four small pillars of gold. Le Dauphin is the living proof of the King’s own immortality. Behind the son, the proud father, Louis XIV and the loving mother, Queen Maria-Teresa are beaming to the “Vive Le Roy’s” of the crowd. Theirs is not a carriage but rather an ornate gold-leafed platform drawn by eight white horses. Furs and multi-colored flowers surround two ornate thrones on which the Royals are sitting. The crowd is throwing rose petals at the King and Queen as they wave, proud of what would turn out to be the only child of theirs who would not die of infant mortality. François Couperin was the Queen’s third attempt to give the throne an heir, the first child had been still born and the second died hours after birth from suffocation. There had been rumors in the halls of the Palais des Tuileries that she might have fallen out of favor with the King but today is her day of triumph. Le Dauphin is now here for all to see and they are taking him to the Palais des Tuileries to show Paris its future ruler. An orchestra of thirty musicians immediately follows the King and Queen on another large platform covered with ferns and encased in a border of yellow roses, that one drawn by twenty black horses. A procession of several other carriages follow as they slowly make their way to the Seine River, a five-hour journey. Along the way, throughout the countryside, crowds of people are lined up to see the monarchs and their heir. Everywhere there are vendors, food stalls, wine barrels, people playing music, singing and dancing. Once at the river, the whole caravan boards five giant rowboats that are awaiting. The festivities continue on the water. Again gathered along the banks, the populace ogles a King and Queen who rarely venture in public, especially in such grand manner. Some cheer blindly, while other poor folks marvel in awe at the opulence displayed to celebrate the royal birth. The boats slowly make their way down the Seine. As the sun begins to set, torches on the boats are lighted and fires are lighted along the banks of the Seine illuminate the approach into the City Of Lights. As the convoy nears the docking area at the Jardin Des Tuileries, floating bivouacs are burning directly on the water, giving the whole scene a golden glow and a surreal atmosphere of warmth.
An enormous crowd is gathered at the edge of the Jardin Des Tuileries, the gardens adjacent to what would later become the Place de la Concorde. Everywhere statues have been decorated with costumes and wigs, trees and bushes are covered with garlands and candelabras stand erect everywhere. Large flower arrangements are propped up against buffet tables where servants dressed in white tend to elaborate displays of meats, game, fish and other dishes. There are several stages where performers entertain the crowd. When the Royal party enters the Jardin des Tuileries, a hush comes over the crowd and all activities come to a halt. Time stands still as all eyes converge on the convoy. The carriages disembark and the crowd goes wild. Rows of soldiers open up a pathway through the crowd for the procession to make its way to the Palais.
Inside, a much more extravagant feast is already underway. Drum rolls silence the people present in the grand hall as a flurry of horns announces the entrance of the King and Queen. The crowd kneels as the Monarchs enter and make their way to the head table while four governesses follow carrying Le Dauphin on his ermine pillow. The perfumes of nobility fill the air, the ladies in their colorful silk dresses, the gentlemen in their powdered wigs. Five hundred of the noblest friends and allies of the monarchy are in attendance.
One such man is Prince Francis Rakoczy I, ruler of the principality of Siebenbürgen in Transylvania, a friend of France and of the late Cardinal Mazarin. The Prince is dashing man of fifty who wears a full-length jeweled black cloak crowned by a mane of white hair that stands a head above most his consorts. While his presence is dramatic and his temper feared, deep inside he is a gentle and wise man who has survived several wars and a thirty-year marriage of power to Duchess Alexa Tekeli of Poland, a mean woman with a penchant for intrigue. Considered by his peers to be just but ruthless, Gräf Rakoczy, as he is called in his homeland, has a reputation for courage and even temerity. His is the last fiefdom to resist the invasion of the Hapsburgs, rivals of France who control the Slavic territories and most of the Balkans; therefore, he is an important ally to Spain and France. As always, he has come to France in a lone carriage with two guards. And Gräf Rakoczy is elated to be in Paris. First there will be the feast for Le Dauphin, and then he has been invited to spend a fortnight at Chambord, King Louis’ favorite hunting grounds in the Loire valley.
Mademoiselle Aurore de Villiers is a beauty who has just turned twenty-eight but barely looks emancipated. She has long Irish-red hair, perfect white skin with a slender figure. She is educated, worldly, witty and is familiar with most of the royal courts of Europe. Confidante to Maria-Teresa of Spain she has been at the royal court of France for two years whence she came as demoiselle-de-compagnie to Queen Maria-Teresa. Her father was a banker who was ennobled by Louis XIII, became the Marquis de Villiers and was sent on diplomatic missions as an ambassador. Her mother was a very feminine, beautiful brunette with almond-shaped eyes, a former courtesan whose fate was changed when the Marquis, one of her regulars, ennobled her by a controversial marriage. She more than lived up to the Marquis’ expectations: she was a great lover, a consummate hostess, a perfect mother and she used the eases of her new situation to further her knowledge. She was charitable and well loved by her entourage, as she made no secret of her past but rather blessed the second chance she had been given and for which she was ever grateful to her husband the Marquis. Always drawn to the occult, she became a mystic and belonged to secret societies. In time, her daughter Aurore acquired that thirst for knowledge.
Although born in Paris, Aurore grew up all over the world. She was first raised in Pondichery, India where she was exposed to eastern philosophy at an early age. Then, her family lived in London for a few years where she was tutored in the ways of the modern world. Aurore then followed her parents to Vienna. By then it was clear that she had a gift for languages. When the Hapsburgs started their rampage throughout Eastern Europe, her parents lived in Amsterdam but they returned to Paris. Then still a young demoiselle, Aurore was sent to Madrid where she was introduced at Royal Court of Philippe IV, upon recommendation from Cardinal Mazarin, a personal friend of her father. For four years she attended the University where she learned astronomy, medicine and literature. It is also there that she befriended Princess Maria-Teresa when the latter returned from studying in Switzerland. It is that friendship that ultimately brought her back to Paris once the Queen Mother and Cardinal Mazarin had convinced Philippe IV that the union of Maria-Teresa and Louis would save Europe from the Hapsburgs.
And today Aurore was Demoiselle de Cérémonies; her social stature and knowledge of languages, French, English, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, German and Sanskrit made her most sought after at such events. Throughout the day she had been going around filtering requests for audiences with His Majesty and the Queen all the while making sure the Royal couple would indeed get to converse with the ones they needed to.
Once Louis XIV and Queen Maria-Teresa sat down at the main table, the guests made their way to their assigned seats at tables that went all around the Grand Ballroom. Servants dressed in red and gold with black gloves and black masks went about serving dishes so varied and so abundant that it was literally impossible for one individual to taste them all.
On this fateful day, on recommendation from Queen Maria-Teresa herself, Aurore de Villiers had seated herself next to the Gräf Rakoczy whom she had never met and about whom she knew very little, except that he had been invited to Chambord for a fortnight, following the ceremonies. A perfect gentleman, he introduced himself. She liked the way he looked; his manliness made her feel secure. His voice was deep and soothing. They talked about Prussian art, world religions and British literature. He told her about his interest in mysticism and the occult and soon she confided in him that had she lived in another time, she would have probably been burned at the stake. They laughed and he loved her laugh, it was frank, jovial and totally spontaneous. Throughout the evening, Aurore kept noticing a small, round blue light in the corner of her eye. Whenever she would try to hone in on it, it would disappear, only to reappear moments later. She did not know what to make of it at the time and concentrated her attention on the Prince. When his hand brushed past her hair, she blushed like a virgin. Interminable minutes and hours passed while their hands touched, their eyes locked and the whole world around them disappeared. Finally, she got up and whispered something in his ear before swiftly walking across the room to disappear behind one of the tapestries lining the walls.
Aurore waited in her suite of rooms, calmly brushing her red hair set free from the flowers that decorated it. The light from the candles danced around the room and flickers shined on her perfect silhouette wrapped in a white silk robe with red dragons embroidered all over. The knock at the door was faint but she had been eagerly anticipating it. She went to open it. Gräf Rakoczy entered and swung his cloak unto the bed. Immediately, before any word could be said, their lips found each other. Their bodies clung to one another and together they found the bed. It was that night and that love that my soul chose to come back to life on this earth. I had been hovering about Aurore for some years now, a mere blue light in the corner of her eye in times of fertility. And tonight, the time had come. It was an easy choice, they were perfect together and their love was perfect.
The following two weeks at the Chateau de Chambord, Aurore de Villiers and Gräf Rakoczy were inseparable and proved to me that I had made the right decision by choosing them as a vehicle for my incarnation. What I did not know was the fate that awaited my future parents.