Christmas Day, Virginia.

The old man in the chair was watching the news. In fact, he always watches only news on television. When he is not watching the news on television, he uses the screen for video conferencing with his business team members. Besides spending his time before the screen, and when not sleeping, he likes to have long walks in the elevated walkways in his private forest that contain few mountains. These walkways were built by him, for him.

It was thirty minutes past two in the morning. He woke up ten minutes earlier. Sipping black coffee laced with rum, he sat in the recliner, watching the news. He was one of the few men in the world that defied ageing. He still looks about sixty with a fit and lean body, and very few wrinkles on his face. He was so agile, nobody expects him to have seen over eighty-five winters.

The television was showing the live telecast of the “International Cease Fire Day”, with a young female anchor who had positioned herself at the table, using her bosom as support, and was speaking something that closely resembled English. Her eyes were wide, and she was as expressive as someone on a late night drama show. The technicians in the studio seemed to be doing overtime, and her voice was overshadowed by the noise of crowds moving in the other half of the studio room. Two ticker lines of breaking news showed some advertisements of infant toys, mixed with details of old news about rigged elections in Cambodia. “Foolish gurus of advertisements, always out of context,” the old man cursed under his breath recalling the advertisements featuring a provocative porn actress promoting contraceptives that were shown during the breakfast news bulletin. He watched the anchor, who would be going to bed at eight o’clock in the morning, and remarked, “Or, they may. I might be out of sync with the world.”

He reached for his phone and pressed 5. After a while, the operator answered and said in a sleepy voice, “Good Morning Sir.”

“Were you sleeping?” he tried to sound menacing but his high pitched voice resembled that of Goofy.

“No, I... I just was coming from the restroom,” the operator silently wished the old man a deep fry in the eternal hell.

“Connect me to the White House.”

“One moment, please...” The operator called the White House and waited to hear another sleepy voice. After waking up the operator at the White House, he informed him about the caller, and connected the line to the old man on the other end.

“Is the President awake?” The caller enquired.

“President is away. In Geneva, attending the International Cease Fire Day, Sir. May return by tomorrow,” the White House operator replied politely and enquired, “Any message you want me to pass on?”

“Leave it.” The line was cut. The old man went out of the room into balcony. It was much cooler in the balcony, and he was greeted by floating flakes of snow. He went to the parapet wall and saw the beautiful panorama that stretched before him. In the moonlight, he could see the distant palms swaying in the mild breeze, as if they were shivering. He rubbed his palms together and pressed them onto his eyes and cheekbones.

He came into the room, pulled over a babushka and looked for his boots. Fully dressed, he looked like a malnourished polar bear. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he scowled. Tracing wrinkles on his face with his nails, he walked out of the house.

Seeing the owner coming downstairs, the guard manning the gate came out of his cabin and greeted him: “Good Morning, Mr Fuchs.”

“Hi Billy. ‘Morning,” he returned the greeting and waited for the guard to open the small entrance in the main door. He pushed himself out and waited again till the entrance was closed. He walked for fifty yards and turned back to have a look at his mansion. He always wanted to call it a castle. But whoever had known of its existence called it Fuchs’ mansion. He abhorred it when he overheard someone referring to his castle as Fuchs’ Mansion.

He thought of his original family name, Scharf. ‘Yes, we were sharp,’ he thought of his family. Even now, his offspring living in Israel goes by the name Scharf. “Fuchs,” he spat furiously. 

He remembered his colleague who, out of pure fun, gave him the nickname Fuchs for the first time, during the World War. True to his name, his foxy plans always ensured victory in small battles, whatever he fought at the time. But, after the World War, when he chose to relocate to America instead of going to Israel - owing to his brilliance or cunningness, depending on who was commenting - Fuchs really grew in stature over time.

He turned back and walked into the woods. He remembered his walks with his father in the woods of Bavaria. Suddenly, even now, he smelled the same. In his elated mood, he began talking to his father and continued his walk.