1901,
Jonathan Crown, 19 years old, sat naked on the corner of the bed embraced by the hazy arms of opium smoke. His clothes were scattered around a room that was not his as he stared out the window, across the horizon, at the first rays of sunlight creeping through the city. He swayed, drunk on wine and food and success, smiling distractedly. Louise shifted behind him, waking after a night of hard work.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” John said, “I’m leaving to become rich.”
“Me too, honey.” She rolled like her Irish accent, but Mr. Crown wasn’t looking at her any more.
“My father is dead,” he smiled, “and war is coming. It’s terrible, and I am going to use it to become the richest man in
The room was silent. Damning him. Already the Syphilis had come into his body, was fighting through his veins, digging its way to chip away at a brain already sore with tragedy and newfound wealth. Trenches dug by errant youth, the spikes in his veins, the poisonous breath of sweet sweet poppy and late nights prowling the streets were now flooded with gold.
“I’m going to
She felt his eyes upon him, and roused herself. She shrugged in response.
“The Ottomans almost took the world with cannons and numbers. Everybody pretends it never happened, but they almost did it. And you know why they couldn’t?”
With eyes longing for sleep, Louise shook her head.
“They were tied down. To a nation. Louise, I’m going to take the world. With guns so beautiful people will be begging to use them against each other. I…” He stopped, putting his fist to his chest and closing his eyes as his dinner shifted uncomfortably. “I am going to rule the world.”
Louise leveled at him, the lines of a hard life etched across her face, uncomfortable with a drunken customer unwilling to leave, forcing her to tell him everything was going to be okay. And when she asked him simply, “Why?” it seemed to cut him across the chest.
“I don’t suppose I know. But I can tell you this much. People are rotten to the core, and if you’re smart you won’t bring a boy into this world. Even if you bring him up right, someone’s going to put a gun into his hand and make a killer out of him, and he’ll thank them for the privilege. It’s a wicked, wicked world and I think I should very much enjoy being the wickedest man on the face of it.”
And they sat there, as she eased behind him and held him in an adequate embrace. He leaned backward; fell into her, his eyes never leaving the coming dawn. He spoke rhetorically for another half an hour, asking her questions with no answer, which she dutifully provided. She waited for him to leave, so she could return the statue of Mary she felt compelled to hide on working nights. As he roused himself, awkwardly replacing his many-layered attire, he smiled again and looked around the room.
“Do you want a country? Name one. I’ll give it to you. Do with it whatever you please.”
She sighed at his cruel game. “Fine,” she said, her eyes not smiling, “I want you to give me the moon.”
Jonathan Crown laughed at the joke, watching as the return of blue skies cast Louise’s property into obscurity. As he walked out the door of her den, he would leave behind the last pleasant evening of his life. He would think back fondly to this evening, as he built his empire and armed the nations of the world to better kill each other. He would write letters to her, pages of apology and meaningless drivel, which he would give to his valet to mail. He would dutifully place them in the fire. As his brain eroded under the weight of decision and disease, Jonathan Crown became two men, fierce in his public life and mad in his private, every night going to bed with dreams of Louise and her Moon. He would grow old and finally die, leaving behind a will and testament dedicating the direction of his entire corporate empire to the wishes of an unknown
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