Rachel Glazny was a fashion model as I suspected the first time I saw her. Sleek, expensive, much in demand. She was always traveling, working, on the go. Victor was her mentor. That meant if her agent and manager couldn’t handle her, they got in touch with Victor. She was totally dependent on him. If she was on a shoot in, say, Shanghai and the smallest thing went wrong – she had a headache or woke with a bad dream – she’d beg Victor to get on the next plane, even though she knew he never would. It wasn’t that she was spoiled; more that she was extremely neurotic. Probably her outrageous beauty had done that to her, those fine bones and luminous eyes that made her look almost like she was from another world, one most humans didn’t get to inhabit.
She’d met Victor in 2003 when he had a clinic in Dallas and one of her handlers had sent her to him to calm her down, keep her thin and healthy. She’d probably been in her teens then, but no one really knew how old she was – that was her and Victor’s secret because, along with the gift of healing, Victor had the gift of reversing the effects of age. She fell in love with him for that, understandable since in her profession it was crucial that she remain eternally young, fresh, dewy. I think Victor toyed with her. She was asexual, totally creeped out by the idea of anyone putting a hand on her, except for Victor whose touch she craved like a drug. So he had power over her plus he could charge her a fortune for his services. That made for a very weird relationship. I saw her at his place a number of times. Once, for no apparent reason, she tried to pick a fight with me. We were in his waiting room and I was doing my best not to stare at her. “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you,” she said suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard what I said.”
“He prefers me to you,” she interrupted. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Actually, I never really thought about it.”
“Oh yeah, right. Why are you talking to me then?”
Whew! She was all worked up, her glowing translucent skin clotted pink, fine nostrils flaring. Her voice had the hint of a Czech accent.
“I think you’re the one who started talking to me,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Don’t give me that crap!”
Victor appeared then, thank god, took her arm, led her away. Later he told me she grew irrational when she had her period and not to take what she said personally. “She’s just very sensitive, a bit of a prima donna.” At the time, he referred to her as his god daughter, which definitely didn’t ring true, but he might have had no other words for their relationship. I wish I had a picture of her. The best I can do is show you this recent portrait of a client who somewhat resembles Rachel.
And now I want to tell you another weird story of a connection of Victor’s – someone who is possibly secretly (and scandalously) related to him – but this one takes place in the present, in current time.
To be continued…
Cover photo ~ Incognito, Bea Serendipity, https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/