The Last of the Blues

The massive bullet-shaped body broke the surface of the calm waters of the Northern Sea. The pale light of the full moon bounced off the slick, wet skin and cracked into a million shards of reflections. The blowhole expanded letting out a gush of oxygen-exhausted air that took up with it a tremendous amount of water in a fantastic geyser that dissolved in mist as it fell back into the frigid ocean.

The darkness gave her hope as it provided a cloak of protection. Her fears were momentarily subsided. Fears, which were forever reinforced as she searched for the elusive mate that would help her renew the greatness of her magnificent race which had been decimated to the point of near extinction—or complete, if she failed in her quest.

Now she filled her lungs to almost bursting capacity before, once again, letting herself be swallowed by the darker, denser atmosphere that was the undersea.

Her amazonian tail, like a gigantic geisha fan, made a final mighty splash audible, perhaps a mile away, as she challenged her eternal pursuers to a showdown of wills.

It would be easy to let herself die, to rest from the unnerving expectancy of the inevitable encounter with her age-old enemy who tirelessly sailed the ancient seas, forever longing to exterminate her kind. It was now up to her, the female of the species, to not give up. She had always known that she was the stronger of the two, the protector and the nurturer. Therefore, she swam on, for the sea was her kingdom and in her kingdom—she was queen.
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The room was a cavernous rectangle two hundred feet long by one hundred feet wide. The domed ceiling was sixty feet high at its highest point—a central rosette from which hung a single chandelier with a thousand light bulbs burning at once and so ornate and elaborately worked that the mammoth size seemed appropriate for the mesmerizing thing of beauty, a thing to marvel at; although it was downright scary to stand beneath it. The colorful fresco that adorned the ceiling depicted a reef with a myriad of sea-creatures and plants in all their magnificent forms and colors. A cornice of gold-gilded rows of dolphins and seahorses swimming amid undulating beds of seaweeds served as a grandiose frame to the entire ensemble.

"Magnificent, precisely what I expected," the man in white said softly. He gazed at the empty spaciousness with critical eyes. He tried hard to visualize the location of the furnishings and accessories that would ornament his most prized acquisition. The fact that it had not been acquired yet was of no significance to him, because what he wanted—he got.

The man’s name was Peter Casablanca. He was tall and dark, perhaps darker than it was comfortable for his Yankee associates. He had penetrating black eyes, not unlike those of a man-eating great white shark, and a hooked nose that brought to mind the great condor of his native Andes. His family had come to Boston when Peter was barely five years of age, bringing with them a vast fortune of dubious origins.

His father, Alejandro, upon disembarking set out to start a new family business and in a few short years had managed to establish a nationwide chain of very exclusive hotels and restaurants.

Being an only child gave Peter his father’s undivided attention whenever he could get away from his business. Alejandro’s overprotectiveness of his adored son made for a very strong relationship, bonded by the old man’s fear of losing his only child and of Peter’s love for his wonderful father.

Peter was twenty-three and already in charge of a good portion of the business when his beloved father died. The very idea that he would have to live the rest of his life without the protection of his father was repugnant to him, and so, it came as a shock to him that his father’s death did not seem so painful once he knew that he could take care of, not only himself and his ailing mother, but the business as a whole.

It was then that he discovered, and fully accepted his immense egocentricity. He then immersed himself in his work and began exploring new methods of becoming richer and, of course, more powerful. He went into businesses which had been anathema to his father and soon had multiplied what was now entirely his fortune many times over.

His passion for the arts and the unusual was born perhaps as a need to pacify his boredom, for he felt that there was not much more to be accomplished in life once one had accumulated enough riches and gained the respect of one's peers.

Thus, he became the most generous patron the art community in Boston had ever known. He now only needed a worthy charity in which to concentrate his nurturing instincts, but it had to be one that would mold itself to his manner of thinking, and he found it in the Museum of Marine Biology.

Why he had chosen this particular institution to take under his wing, even he did not know. But they would have his help if it killed them. The curator he could not be, his knowledge of marine biology was very limited, to say the least. But he found that a great deal of knowledge was not required to be head of the board of directors if one had enough money and was willing to part with some of it.

Soon after the amicable takeover, the decision to do something extraordinary for his pet project came to mind. However, it had to be a thing worthy of his flair for grandiosity and it must not look like he gave it a great deal of thought, being that he also liked to be spontaneous. It took him over two years and a considerable sum of money just to finish the first phase of his project: the palace-like wing that involved the destruction of over half the majestic garden of the old museum building.

Although, secretly everyone concerned was dead set against the removal of what they all considered an integral part of the historic institution, by their passivity they accepted the fact that money, especially in sizable amounts, is the great consoler.

Now that the impressive addition was a reality, he had to find a way to complete the second and final phase of his gift-project to the museum; and this was to fill the empty showrooms, especially the great room he had built for his, as yet secret, special acquisition.

(will continue)