The Cellar

The poplars lining the path to Domus Lunae were almost horizontal in the wind. Elmsworth loved the drama of things like that; he always was such a card, that fellow. On the night of the dinner party in question, Lottie and I were dressed to the nines and buzzing as we speculated in the back of the Bentley. Childers dropped us at the front door as always, and I rang the bell. Elmsworth’s man, Dudley, ushered us in and before we knew it, we were squiffy on French and scarfing down canapes. The man of the hour materialized once we’d joined the others in the drawing room, whisking us away to show us this and that priceless statue and some paintings he’d acquired from some old Nazi’s secret post-war cache. Allegedly.

Puffy, Starchy and The Colonel all ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ like good little poodles as Elmsworth regaled them with harrowing tales of his failing vineyard in the Loire. Lottie rolled her eyes quite a bit and I puffed on Turkish cigarettes to pass the time, knowing full well that the old boy had buried the lead as per. After an agonising tour of Elmsworth’s arsenal (I’ve already seen every civil war rifle and medieval crossbow from here to Kingdom Come), the chap stopped, twirled his black moustache and tightened the belt of his smoking jacket. ‘Now, if you’d all like to away to the dining room, I’m sure you’ll enjoy Chef’s comprehensive menu.’ I huffed and Lottie squeezed my arm in quiet protest before turning to join the throng. ‘Not you, Old Thing,’ whispered Elmsworth. ‘Nor your good lady wife.’ His dark eyes danced, brimming with familiar devilry. ‘I’ve something you might find interesting.’

We abandoned the niceties of electric lighting and heat for the musty gloom of the deep. Led by Victor Elmsworth, entrepreneur, club and brothel owner, former film star and media darling, myself and Lottie plunged headlong into the unknown. ‘Maybe he’ll kill us this time,’ said my quivering wife, and I must admit the thought intrigued me. But, soon we arrived at an enormous dank stone room, filled to the brim with aged reds poised to set one’s palate ablaze, not with flavor, but with the distillation of memory. Some of these wines were laid down when my father was still cavorting about in short pants. I hesitate to add that my eyes turned misty in the presence of such a thing; all that history. War and art and love and loss: these dusty glass receptacles had slumbered here through it all. I entertained the silly idea that drinking any one of these precious elixirs would impart a protracted lifetime’s worth of meaning.

Then Elmsworth pointed to a divan in the room’s southern corner, like he was simply pointing out the direction of the water closet. ‘And this is the Greek god Dionysus,’ he said, as the slender but athletic youth lounging there looked back at him languidly with icy blue eyes. ‘μη με αγγίζεις,’ said the deity, before sipping from his black rhyton, shaped like the head of a bull.

Lottie, lost in the moment, advanced more than good manners might dictate, toying with her long blonde hair like a besotted teen. ‘He’s exquisite,’ she blathered.

‘He says you’re not to touch him,’ instructed Elmsworth, his volume suddenly dropping. ‘Just in case your ancient Greek’s a little rusty, Old Boy.’

I examined the god from afar and with a modicum of restraint, not wanting to give any offence. His jet black hair managed to catch the meagre candle light from the wall sconces and his coppery skin was utterly free of imperfections. Draped in little more than a leopard’s pelt and sporting a crown of ivy leaves, one could have been forgiven for thinking the whole display one of Elmsworth’s signature japes. Yet, had the creature stood up he would have easily been seven feet tall, and about him was a radiance that I can only describe now as some kind of hazy glow. ‘What the devil is this fellow doing here, Elmsworth?’ I asked.

The man shrugged casually. ‘He just showed up one day. Bodes well for my taste in wine, what what?’

‘θα φύγω όταν τελειώσει το κρασί,’ said Dionysus, glancing at his curious audience with those unfathomable eyes.

I looked to Elmsworth for a translation. ‘Cheeky chappie says he’ll leave once the grog’s finished. I’ll be buggered if I’ll let the old boy clean me out completely!’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Lottie, playing with the strap of her jade green gown.

‘Hm?’ Elmsworth responded. ‘Well, if you like this, Poseidon’s in one of the upstairs bathrooms. Care for a gander?’