The Count

by Astor Quintana 2 years ago in fiction

To Live Eons Is Not for All

The Count

Who will say that I am not me? Cain challenged me, Roger Bacon, Melchizedek, or as he called himself, Comte du St. Germain. I did not meet anyone more interesting, mysterious and antiquated than St. Germain.

Every afternoon he sat outside his house to watch the world, to receive energy from those who passed in front of him, ignoring him in the first step that led to his stay. His eyes were gray and deep, with an aura that suggested he had seen too much, more than any man could bear to see without going crazy. His burned skin, like that of a fisherman from the Aegean, revealed ages under the sun. He looked tired, tired of living and not dying, of searching and finding no way out.

One evening at sixteen I opened my eyes to a dimension that few know. I once walked in front of his open door, and I heard a Summer of Vivaldi vibrate. I knew it was not in a CD or LP player where that music came from. You can tell when it is a speaker and when the wood and the holy hand of the artist who make harmony. Rather, a force, or a spell, led me to cross the threshold of that room which for me was always a mystery. In the room was the great Earl, Hiram, triumphant, eyes closed, his detached soul traveling to other times, other Sephiroth, as if he wanted to go back to that time. - Il Prete Rosso, that's what they called him, a redheaded father, unusual in Italy. He told me without seeing me. His accent was strange, I could not distinguish where he was from.

I'm sorry, I got carried away by the music- I said heading for the exit when I stopped. - It's okay, do you want a cup of tea? Coffee? It's been more than a hundred years that nobody goes through that door. -

I did not want to be discourteous with the kind and eccentric lord who played the violin as David played the lyre, - I'll accept the cup of coffee. -

His gaze was intense, penetrating, seemed to have seen the birth of humanity, the rise and the decline of empires, but everything else appeared to be a sailor of 40 years.

He went to the kitchen to brew coffee, we were silent for a moment. I decided to break the ice, - You interpret that melody very well -

He chuckled, holding in something - is my responsibility to interpret it well - That echoed in my head for a long time. I asked the inevitable question, but did not know what the consequences would be - How well your responsibility? -. There, his eyes, two ice blades, cut the skin of my soul and answered, - If I tell you, you would not believe me, and if you believe me, it is a lot of risk for me -

But the old fisherman saw through me. I do not know if they will be true, if they will be false, I do not know if he was crazy, or if he had an unrivaled imagination, but he told me so many fantastic stories about his life.

An afternoon drinking coffee, he narrated how he met Abraham, how he taught him about the laws that govern the universe and disclose that knowledge only to the illuminated.

In another rainy evening, he spoke about an illegitimate child from a place called Vinci asked for his help. St. Germain handed him tools that had belonged to the Nazarene. Somehow that inspired the bastard.

Casanova had the privilege to go partying with him throughout Venice. Then I confirmed and investigated, that in fact, a mysterious man accompanied Casanova, who carried with him a bag full of diamonds, did not eat, nor drank.

Whenever we talked about those centuries and their friendships, there was chaos. A war was unleashed, a dethroning, death. He always walked around a character who then transcended time as legend, a djinn. Who was really Comte du St. Germain?

One summer day, he talked about how in a day like that, he met a Bavarian man, very intelligent and became close friends. The man spoke of riches, wanted to create a goods exchange system. Germain taught him the secret of wealth, how to do it and maintain control. He also said that if he had control of the wealth of a nation, it matters not who creates the laws.

He showed me mail between him and the King of France at that time, documents that Napoleon III had kept from his daily life. He confessed to have caused a fire in the building where they were kept under lock and key after removing them from the hiding place.

- They always thought me a spy, an undercover agent of some other country with which they had differences. However, I sinned for being too curious, I was a man who wanted to know everything. Nevertheless, everything you need to know fits in an emerald. Since then I stopped searching and began to let what I always knew awaken inside me. - he said showing me a to gleaming and small emerald with tiny writings.

With time and many fascinating stories, I realized that Masons do not use the G referring to the Gnosis, but rather referring to his nom de plume, Germain.

After so much walking through time and lands, he faked his death in Germany. One of his pupils died, took his clothes leaving him lying in his alchemical laboratory. That's why they did not find many of his belongings, nor the gold or diamonds he had in his possession. The wanderer was once again covered in mystery and continued his way to another place, to this old house in the center of an ancient city. There he would go unnoticed, by everyone, except for my curiosity.

One afternoon, I went to his house, with the aim of listening to another of his stories, the ones I did not know whether to believe or not, I observed some black cars like dragons parked in front of his house. A hunch told me that they were going for him, that maybe they had his house watched and all our conversations were heard. It’s been so long since no one went there, until I arrived, young, curious and naive to fill certain nostalgia and tenderness. Several men got out of the cars, strong men, trained, with alert eyes. Finally, a man of great age, you could tell he was in command. Who was that emaciated, snake-looking old man who entered Germain's house?

Hours slipped by while he was inside the house. When the two of them came out together, Germain immediately turned his face and his intense gaze found mine, which had a million questions, doubts and fears. He winked at me, and a crooked smile was drawn on his old face. He got into the car with that reptile and the cars slid through the streets like snakes.

I ran home, the door was left open, so I slammed in. The house was the same, I do not know what it was, but I got the impression that I would never see him again. At the table where he always drank coffee had a letter and an old red leather-bound book. The letter had my name, so I opened it with total freedom. It said the following:

Dear friend,

Not everything they tell you is true, and not everything is what it seems. We must give ourselves the opportunity to be surprised by a truth, and to delude ourselves with a dream. It's my last piece of advice I give you, and a gift for life and your generations to follow. A book that contains what a small emerald could teach. The truth about the universe. You deserve it, you're worth it.

Your Teacher and friend,

Comte du St. Germain

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Astor Quintana

In creative process... always

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