Stoker's Manuscript (3 page)

“They don’t,” she said flatly.

“Then what’s with the bats?”

She looked at me as if I should know the answer. “What do bats eat?”

“Mosquitoes!”
Of course.
To a bat, the vampire would smell like a giant female mosquito swarm. “But don’t bats use echolocation?”

“That is true,” she said. “They navigate and locate by echo, but they are still mammals and use their senses of smell and hearing to identify their prey.”

“Then vampires are not shape-shifters.”

“That is the fictional part of the legend,” she said. “However, because of their adrenaline, they do move so fast that they can be a blur to the human eye.”

“So don’t challenge one to a fencing duel.”

“Do not challenge one outside his box.” She was not amused. “And do not attempt to sneak up on one. His strongest sense by far is smell. He can smell a warm-blooded animal thirty feet away, and it triggers an image in his sight. The warmer the animal, the brighter the glow.”

“Like night vision goggles?”

“Precisely. He smells your emotion because how you feel releases certain hormones, and they all carry signatures through the blood. He will sense your fear, your failures.”

“Some people must really stink,” I mused.

Still humorless. “When he smells blood”—she pointed to her gums over a canine tooth—“his canine gland becomes active.” Mara drew a breath through clenched teeth to demonstrate.

“You keep saying
he
,” I said. “Do you mean in the collective sense?”

Again she shook her head as if I should know the answer. “All the survivors are male. The breeding females, the
strigoiace
, are all gone. Otherwise they would have multiplied and made us all human slaves.” She leaned in. “That’s what the wars were fought over.”

“What wars?”

“Wars between the
wampyr
families.” She used the ancient term for their species. “They fought to kill off the breeders—one breeding matriarch per family.”

“Like a queen bee.”

“When brothers fought, they tended to capture the other’s wife and entomb instead of kill her.”

I shuddered at the thought.

She added, “To keep from going extinct.”

I did not want to consider the specifics. “So what exactly is the danger for a human? Do they turn us into undead, like Lucy Westenra in the story?”

“They don’t. But there is just enough fluid exchanged that a human can be turned into a slave and given extended life.”

I thought of a bad movie and chuckled. “I’m sorry, Mara. You must know how preposterous this sounds.”

“Which part?”

“All of it,” I said. “Come on, extended lives? Human slaves? It doesn’t even make scientific sense.”

“How so?”

“If they’re processing protein, why the long lives? I mean, mosquitoes live less than a month.”

“That is a very good question, my friend. The answer has only surfaced in the last generation. Tell me, what do you know about AIDS?”

I had an entire section of books at home on diseases, viruses, and epidemics. “I know that particular virus goes in and rewrites a person’s genetic code at the DNA level, somehow leaving out the immune system during rewrites.”

Mara nodded her head and waited for me to get it.

“So you’re saying . . . the vampire’s immune system is constantly rewriting . . . except it’s incorporating all the immunities from his victim’s blood?”

She nodded. “And constantly healing, rebuilding, as well. Forever healthy, forever young.”

“So what kills it?”

“The only ways are the old ways to defeat this creature—blunt trauma or burn them in the sunlight.”

“Of course.”

I could not hold a straight face, and at length she stared at me, the type of stare they teach nuns in the convent to show disappointment. “Mr. Joseph,” she said, “you are a smart man. You came here not to expand your wisdom, but to add to your knowledge in pursuit of commerce.”

She had me. I nodded.

“Simply reverse the two, and let your wisdom match your intellect.” She pointed a finger at me. “Please consider my warnings. Then come back to me and discuss what you have seen.”

I thanked her and apologized for my moments of disbelief. But as I drove away, Mara’s expression did not convey hurt feelings or insult, but something resembling pity.

R
omania in the 1980s was a tragedy unimaginable only a quarter century later. To understand how an entire country can slide into godless hands, first one must envision an entire world battle weary, with jackals waiting to feed on its carcass. World War II had ended, and while the rest of Europe experienced a rebirth under liberation and moved toward prosperity, Eastern Europe saw the pointy side of an endless barbed wire fence.

Communism settled over the land, and a couple decades later a small-minded dictator named
attempted to pay off massive debt to Western banks by selling his country’s food supply. What scraps remained were rationed, while the government dictated what to grow. This came a decade after mandating that all married couples have at least five children. In the ensuing financial collapse, Romanians dropped off their children at orphanages until our numbers swelled to more than one hundred thousand.

I say
our
because my brother, Bernhardt, and I were Romanian orphans. In fact, in a sea of the abandoned unwanted, we were truly orphaned orphans: Our parents were dead. We had no shoes and we slept on cots, sharing a single woolen blanket for almost two years while the broken windows whistled with winter’s winds, all the while cared for by social workers who treated us as if we were mutes. To call them caregivers is to misstate both parcels of the word. I don’t remember much about it, perhaps God’s gift of a blank slate, but I recall one day a camera crew entered our room and filmed us. They spoke English, as we had done in our household with a British father. I told them our names and that I was cold and wanted to go home.

They asked me where home was, and I told them it had burned down. A single image of the event remained with me, the sight of smoke and flames consuming our house as a neighbor took us by horse cart to the local police station. Mom and Dad had both been in the house. I was five at the time of the fire, my brother a year younger.

Within a week, Bernhardt and I were on a jet to America with a priest, and we landed at O’Hare. The priest drove us to Holy Cross in Chicago, a Catholic school run by nuns. So began our orphan days in the convent basement. It was not like a licensed orphanage; more like one long study hall until age seventeen, after which I went off to DePaul University and lived on campus until earning my English lit degree three years later. It was easy, for I had already read every book assigned.

I started collecting books in the convent basement. My life was books; a day off meant a trip to the library, my brother ever at my side. The toughest part was the journey to and fro. Not because the neighbors were mean to us, but because their dogs and cats treated us as trespassers, barking and hissing. Though we passed with as much stealth as we could, we watched leery neighbors corral their animals inside when we walked by. On the other hand, we always knew which shops held out a hand with food and kind wishes for our keepers. Those routes we frequented, dropping off holy cards and gracious words, the only things we had to give.

Church food drives always meant alms for the sisters and a bumper crop of canned goods, namely beets and lima beans. Needless to say, my brother and I hated beets. Did you ever notice that the crinkle-cut ones splash more perma-stain juice than the flat slices? And for some reason the nuns always passed on the cans of lima beans. We didn’t like those, either.

Clothing drives brought bags and bags of rumpled garments, about half of them clean. Our job was to sort and fold, then iron after washing. We did get our pick of the boys’ clothing, always optimistically choosing a larger size. But when it came to shoes we drew the line—only a half size larger.

I’ve been in Doug Carli’s office dozens of times and have never seen him wear the same suit twice. One day I asked him what haberdashery he patronized, and stood there mute when he said he had his clothes tailored. As an adult who’d still never bought new clothes in a store, I honestly wasn’t sure what
tailored
meant—perhaps he bought them somewhere and took them to a tailor for finishing. It just never occurred to me to purchase new clothes at a store when ten dollars buys a perfectly fine blazer at Goodwill. To this day I tend to tally a man’s success by the size of his wardrobe.

I mostly blame the convent for my sequestered childhood and naïveté. For example, my brother and I went a dozen years before dining at a restaurant, and I carried my hesitations to dine out well into adulthood. I didn’t just drink from the loner’s cup, I carried it around, thanks to the literally cloistered existence my brother and I shared with the nuns, from morning prayers to obedience hour to evening prayers. More regimented than any military order, never in the company of other children, we took our orders from Mother Daniela, alternatively known as the Don. There was a television, but it was upstairs, and we knew nothing of its operation. What we learned of the outside world arrived via daily newspapers and a transistor radio.

Our world was not devoid of affection, but from the Don it came in the form of kind words, delivered in private, always encouraging, with the promise of a fruitful future for the simple price of paying attention and following the rules we learned there. Of course there is no substitute for a mother’s touch, but the Don had a certain way of patting my shoulder that turned worry to calm. She always seemed to know when it was needed.

Summertime offered a beggar’s portion of freedom and a scant few hours of play not allowed during the school year. Bernhardt and I, still confined to the convent grounds and endless chores, made games out of everything, from cutting designs in the grass to trimming trees certain shapes. At least it was outdoors, and we had the radio. Just one to share, of course, tuned to Cubs games, taking turns with it pressed to an ear. Noise was not permitted, even in summer, so my brother and I established a series of hand signals to keep each other informed. Like a third base coach giving signs, if I tipped my cap that meant the top of the inning, while touching my belt buckle meant the bottom, followed by the number of fingers corresponding to the frame. Thumbs-up meant
Who’s up?
and I flashed the player’s uniform number. And so on.

Later, my college years ran concurrent with Bernhardt’s education and training at a seminary in the suburb of Mundelein. He moved on to wear the collar at St. Sebastyen Church in Chicago, a mere ten blocks from my warehouse. I always knew he would be a priest, not so much because it was his calling but because the church and convent were his shelter. Ever since our parents’ death, my brother was frightened by things that most boys would see as challenges, like a shortcut alley or city park. His cautions seemed to be my urgings, and I tended toward troubled waters.

Needless to say, college was my escape, whereas my brother was drawn to the seminary as a safe haven. We were not different, really. As brothers we observed everything the same way, yet interpreted them differently. For example, when the Don locked the convent’s front gates, Berns felt safe, while I felt trapped. It was a simple matter of differing viewpoints, mine as a collector, though never a hoarder, and his as a bridge. Bernhardt smiled when things went well for other people, and considered that things were going right by him when they were going right for others, God’s graces. Conversely, when affliction landed on their doorsteps, Berns always knew it was God’s home delivery, courtesy of His Will Postal Service. “God has a plan,” he would say. God was forever planning.

That is not to say, by my sarcasm, that I do not believe in God and judgment, for I do. Rather, I believe what is in His book, and I prefer being a good Christian to being a good practicing Catholic.

Arriving at my brother’s after the drive back from Mara’s, I let myself into the rectory reception area; I had a key. I noticed that he still had the purple sash of Lent over a mirror, and as I walked over to remove it, Bernhardt entered the room. Seeing his reflection beside my own in the mirror, we certainly looked like brothers, but not twins. We were both six feet tall, but were built more to escape through tight exits than to stand and fight. We both took our parents’ light eyes and hair, but Berns drew the longer face and Anglo features from our father’s side while I inherited the rounder Saxon face from our mother’s family.

I had e-mailed ahead to alert him of my coming trip, but had not been forthright about the details. In my absence I needed him to check on orders and return calls to those inquiring about books. Other than calling attention to the collection plate, it was the only form of commerce he knew how to transact.

“Authentication work?”

I nodded and handed him the purple sash.

“Thank you,” he said. “Where to?”

“The Rosenbach in Philadelphia.”

“Ah, Mecca for the parchment people,” he said with a chuckle. “I have never been to Philadelphia.”

“Not surprised, Berns, since it’s not between here and Mundelein.”

“I’ve been places.”

I knew he had been to Rome once, plus a side trip. “In the confession booth, maybe.”

“I’ve been around the whole world in the confessional.”

“You’ve never told me the worst thing you’ve heard.”

“Someone asking me the worst thing I’ve heard in the confessional booth.”

And so it was with all our conversations—needling with smiles, a safe harbor for stupid questions, the bonded assurance that we made it out okay despite our humble beginnings.

Berns’s smile vanished when I asked him how the nuns were getting along. It turned out that the convent had run out of money about five or six years ago. This was news to me, though I’d noticed that their count had dropped from a couple dozen to eight. Recently, Berns said, the diocese had purchased a four-bedroom home on the near north side for the remaining elders to live out their lives, the young ones reassigned or released from their vows. But the diocese only made the down payment and the rest came from parishioners’ largesse. As we spoke, they were behind on mortgage payments.

Berns changed the subject. “So what’s at the Rosenbach?”

“Authentication work.” I waited a moment to see if he’d change the subject again, but he did not.

“And . . . ?”

I continued, “And if this manuscript’s authentic, I’ll be off to Europe right away.”

A long pause separated my answer from his reply. “That’s not between here and Mundelein.”

I shrugged. “Only a week out of the country.”

He looked at me with chin lowered, the stern posture he learned from the Don. “Where in Europe
is
this buyer? East of Munich, shall we say?”

“Yeah.” We both knew that meant Romania.

He motioned for me to follow him toward the chapel door just off the rectory. St. Sebastyen was not a large church for such a big city, but it did have a small chapel for intimate ritual and prayer, often used to comfort grieving family members during funeral masses. A stone floor, three rows of pews, and a low ceiling made for cozy confines. The front hosted a stained glass image of Jesus talking to children. An offset dais of wrought iron faced the pews, and a well-worn tandem kneeling station centered before Christ’s image.

My brother closed the door behind us, and I took a seat at the far end of the front pew. Berns bent his knees several minutes at the kneeling station before crossing himself and motioning for me to join him. I knelt beside him and crossed myself.

He began, “I’ve always worried this day would come.”

“I’m not supposed to go, I know,” I said. “But you did.” On his trip to the Vatican, Bernhardt had taken a side journey to the homeland and returned a different person, a soul cluttered with grief and foreboding, and spoke of the superstitious old ways with newfound authority. He’d gone Ortho Euro on me.

“Today I tell you why.” He began a prayer. “Our Father . . .” I expected to hear the Lord’s Prayer, but as he continued looking ahead, not at me, he restarted, “Our father . . . murdered our mother.”

Somehow I knew that without ever being told. But today was the first time I heard the words.

He continued, “Murder-suicide. He stabbed her, then burned the house down around them. Chained himself inside.”