The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All (23 page)

***

    The group met on Friday morning for breakfast at a French cafe, followed by a carefully-paced tour of downtown landmarks. Lunch was Italian, then onward to the Museum of Treasures and a foray to quaint Cowtown, which delighted the Cooks and, more importantly, Mr. Rawat, and was at least tolerated by the others.

    Lancaster had slipped Cowtown into the schedule simply to tweak Ms. Diamond as he suspected she'd fear the excessive display of Midwest provincialism. Judging from the glare he received, his assessment was on the mark. He'd softened the blow by reserving one of six tables at a tiny, hole in the wall restaurant that served authentic Indian cuisine rivaling anything he'd tasted in Delhi or Mumbai. Mr. Rawat was a cool customer in every sense of the word. Elegant in his advancing years, his black hair shone like a helmet, his aged and hardened flesh gleamed like polished wood. His watch was solid gold. Even the goon Dedrick who lurked in the background, ready to intercept any and all threats, was rather classy via proximity with his long, pale hair and black suit and fancy eyeglasses that slotted him as a burly legal professional rather than a bodyguard.

    Mr. Rawat raised a glass of Old Monk to Lancaster and tipped him a slight wink of approval. Dining went into the nine o'clock hour, after which they repaired to the historic and luxurious Copperhill Hotel and made for the lounge, a velvet and mirrored affair with double doors open to the grand ballroom.

    Everything was going exactly as Lancaster planned until Dr. Christou and Mr. Rawat began discussing world folklore and demonology with a passion that turned heads at nearby tables. This vein was central to Dr. Christou's studies. He'd published numerous works over the course of four decades in academia, the most noteworthy a treatise called
The Feral Heart,
which documented cases of night terrors and the mythology of the living dead in the Balkans and the Greek Isles. Mr. Rawat had come across the book shortly after its publication in 1971 and written a lengthy letter taking the professor to task for his fanciful reportage. This initiated what developed into a lifelong correspondence and apparently adversarial friendship.

    Dr. Christou was broad through shoulders and chest. His large head was bald except for a silvery fringe, and his mustache and beard were white streaked with black. He wore a vintage suit and three rings-two on the left hand, one on the right. He drank copiously; Canadian Club.
These days a proper Greek drinks scotch, but as a culture-strapped American, a Canadian import will suffice.
Lancaster couldn't help but notice he resembled the bluff and melodramatically distinguished actors who populated Saturday night horror features of yesteryear; a physically imposing relative of Christopher Lee. The doctor said to Mr. Rawat, "I don't pretend to know the truth, my friend. There are cracks in the world. These cracks are inhabited by…marvels undreamt of in our philosophies."

    "We have known each other for an age," Mr. Rawat said. "and I am still uncertain where the truth ends and the bullshit begins with you."

    "I think the subject of night terrors is fascinating," Mrs. Cook said. She and her husband were slightly younger than Mr. Rawat and Dr. Christou, around Lancaster's age, a year or two shy of senior discounts and social security checks. The couple were gray and heavyset, habitual tans as faded as ancient tattoos. Mr. Cook wore a heavy tweed jacket, and his wife a pattern dress and pearls that were slightly behind modern fashion. She'd drunk her share of gin and tonic.

    "Francine majored in literature," Mr. Cook said, gesturing with his tumbler of Johnnie Walker Blue. "The classics-Henry James, Wilde, Menken, Camus, Conrad.
That
lot."

    "Actually, I prefer Blackwood and Machen during the proper season. When the leaves are falling and the dark comes early and stays.
The Horla
, by Maupassant. There's a fine one regarding sleep paralysis and insanity."

    "A demon that creeps into the bedchamber and squats upon its victim's chest. That particular legend is prevalent in many cultures," Dr. Christou said.

    "An oldie, but a goodie," Lancaster said, beginning to feel the weight of his liquor. Ms. Diamond slashed him with a look.

    "And thoroughly debunked," Mr. Rawat said. "Like
deja vu
and neardeath experiences. Hallucinations, hypnogogic delusions. Nothing sinister. No sign of the numinous, nor the unholy for that matter."

    "You were so much more fun as a lad," Dr. Christou said, smiling.

    "I come by my skepticism honestly. There was a time I believed supernatural manifestations possible. Lamias,
vorvolakas
, lycanthropes, the Loch Ness Monster-"

    "
Rakshasa
."

    "Yes,
Rakshasa
. UFOs, spoon-bending, levitation, spontaneous combustion-"

    "Spontaneous erections!"

    "What, you don't believe in
Rakshasas
?" A sallow, pinch-faced man in a white jacket at the adjoining table leaned forward and partially across Lancaster so the others could hear him. His tie dipped into Lancaster's mostly empty glass of Redbreast. The man was of indeterminate age and smelled of first-class cigarettes and designer cologne. His skull was oddly pointed and hairless, dull flesh speckled with liver spots. He'd styled his mustache into a Fu Manchu. "Sorry, sorry. How rude of me. I'm Gregor Blaylock. These are my comrades Christine, Rayburn, and Luther. My research team." The trio of graduate students were handsome and smartly dressed-the men in jackets and turtlenecks, the woman in a tunic and skirt. Both men were lean and sinewy; sweat glittered on their cheeks. The woman wore bright red lipstick. Her dark skin was flawless. She stroked Mr. Blaylock's shoulder, a pairing of youth and age that was eerily congruous to that of Mr. Rawat and his escort Kara.

    Dr. Christou laughed and stood to shake hands. "Gregor! Good to meet in person at last. What great coincidence has brought us together?"

    "Oh, you know there are no coincidences, Lucas."

    Ms. Diamond quickly made further introductions as the men pushed the tables together so the newcomers might join the festivities. Lancaster wasn't certain of the new peoples' nationalities. Even listening to Mr. Blaylock speak proved fruitless to solving that riddle. Perhaps Asian-heritage and a European education accounted for the man's exotic features and the flattening of his accent. It was odd, very odd. Evidently, Mr. Blaylock was also an anthropology professor, and another of Dr. Christou's legion of fans and correspondents, but details weren't forthcoming, just the gibberish of mutual recollection that left all save its intimates in the fog. He finally gave in and said, "If I may be so bold, where are you from? Originally, that is."

    Mr. Blaylock said, "Why, I was born here. We all were born here." He inclined his head to include his companions. Something in the curl of his lip, his archness of tone, indicated
here
didn't necessarily refer to Kansas or the heartland, but rather the continent, if not the world itself. So Mr. Blaylock was that smug species of academic who delighted in
double entendre
and puns. Asshole. Lancaster drained his whiskey, masking a sneer.

    Ms. Diamond pressed against Lancaster as a spouse might and muttered, "What the hell are you doing?" She maintained her pearly shark smile for the audience.

    "It's a fair question," Mr. Blaylock said, as if he'd somehow overheard the whisper. "Mr. Lancaster, you've been around the block, yeah?"

    "I've heard the owl hoot," Lancaster said. "And the Sri Lankan Frogmouth too."

    "I hear you. You Limeys speak your minds. You're inquisitive. No harm. I approve."

    "Not
much
harm," Ms. Diamond said.

    "You are exceedingly generous, Mr. Blaylock. But I'm American."

    "Oh, yeah? Odd. You must spend loads of time on the island."

    Dr. Christou said, "Our kind patron heard a Frogmouth hoot. Have you seen a
Rakshasa
, perhaps?"

    "Not in Kansas," Mr. Blaylock said.

    "What's a
Rakshasa
?" Mr. Cook said.

    "It's a flesh-eating monster from Indian mythology, dear," Mrs. Cook said. "There are packs of them roaming about in classical Indian literature, such as the
Mahabharata
."

    Dr. Christou said, "I've not encountered one either, nor do I know anyone with firsthand knowledge. However, in 1968 I visited a village on the Greek island of Aphra and interviewed the locals, including a Catholic priest, who were thoroughly convinced v
orvolakes
stalked them. The priest showed me a set of photographs taken by a herdsman that were rather convincing."

    "Ha! The ones in
The Feral Heart
were far from convincing, old friend. Very, very far."

    "Certainly the lighting was poor. Sunset, so the contrast of light and darkness was jarring. Of course, shrinking them down to fit the page also compromised the quality."

    "Was there a creature in the pictures? How exciting," Mrs. Cook said.

    "Eh? You haven't read his
famous
book?" Mr. Rawat said.

    "In fact, yes. I read books for the words, not the pictures."

    "There were at least four creatures, actually," Dr. Christou said. "The shepherd spied them emerging from a crypt in the hills at dusk. The man was on a bluff and they glared up at him. Horrifying once you realize what you're dealing with, I assure you."

    "The goat herder took a picture of
something,
" Mr. Rawat said. "To settle the matter, the film should be sent to a laboratory and analyzed."

    "Alas, that is impossible," Mr. Christou said. "I returned them to the priest after they were copied into the book. The village was abandoned in 1970, its inhabitants scattered along the mainland. What became of the herdsman or the film remains a mystery."

    "Rubbish," Mr. Rawat said. "I've studied the photos a million times. Our nameless shepherd captured images of youthful vagabonds. Perhaps grave-robbers at rest, if one is inclined toward drama."

    "No mystery about the missing film," Mr. Blaylock said. "When the Greek government repatriated the villagers to the mainland I'm sure such materials were confiscated or lost. You mentioned a priest-perhaps the Church spirited away the evidence for secret study. Too convenient?"

    "Too conspiratorial, I'd think," Lancaster said. "Most of the tinfoil hats amongst the clergy were exiled to the fringes by the '70s, were they not?"

    "You are familiar with the Eastern Church?" Mr. Rawat said, raising an eyebrow.

    "There was this girl I met in Athens who'd gone astray from ecclesiastical upbringing in a big way. She gave me the history lesson. The infighting and intrigue, the conspiracies."

    "I bet," Ms. Diamond said.

    "Life is full of little conspiracies," Dr. Christou said and looked at Mr. Blaylock. "Imagine running into
you
here of all places. I thought you lived in British Colombia."

    Mr. Cook said, "What were those other critters you mentioned earlier? A
vorvo
-something?" He sounded bored.

    "Vorvolakas," Mr. Rawat said.

    "Vorvo-whatsis?"

    "Blood-sucking undead monster from Greek mythology, dear," Mrs. Cook said. "There are scads of them in the old writings of The Eastern Church."

    "There's also that Boris Karloff movie," Mr. Rawat said. He smiled coolly and sipped his rum. "You can watch the whole thing on the internet. I'm certain my esteemed colleague has done so in the name of research."

    Lancaster said, "Val Lewton's film. Scared me pantless when I was a wee lad. What a great old flick."

    "I like you more and more.
Yia mas
!" Dr. Christou knocked back yet another Canadian Club.

    "Val Lewton," Mr. Cook said, his glazed eyes brightening. "Now you're talking. My dad owned a chain of theaters. Lewton was a hell of an auteur, as the kids say."

    "Oh, honey." Mrs. Cook smiled with benign condescension and patted her husband's cheek so it jiggled. "Val Lewton? Really? Goodness."

    "Hellenic vampire tradition is quite rich," Mr. Christou said. "The damned rise from their graves-day or night-and creep through villages, rapping on doors, tapping on windows, imitating the cries of animals and children. It is said one must never answer a door after dark on the first knock."

    Mrs. Cook said, "As I understand it, Grecian vampires are actually more akin to shape changers. Lycanthropes and what have you."

    "Quite right, dear lady! Quite right!" Dr. Christou said. "The Balkan Wars led to a minor usurpation by the Slavic vampire myth of the Greek antecedent. Or, I should say, a co-option, though who ultimately co-opted whom is open to debate. Ah, you would've been a much brighter assistant than the clods I was assigned on my expeditions. And lovelier to boot!"

    "Oh, hush, Doctor," Mrs. Cook said, casually patting her hair as she cast about for the waiter. "Seriously, although you're the expert, doesn't it seem plausible that these legends-the Rakshasa, the lycanthropes and vampires, the graveyard ghouls, the horrors of Dunsany, Moses, and Lovecraft, are variations on a theme?"

    "If by plausible you mean impossible," Mr. Rawat said.

    "Certainly," Mr. Blaylock said. "And a hundred other beasties from global mythology. Each iteration tailored to the traditions and prejudices of individual cultures. However, as Mr. Rawat so elegantly declared, it's rubbish." He smiled slyly. "Except for ghosts. The existence of ghosts is a theory I can get behind."

    There were more rounds of drinks accompanied by tales of werewolves, vampires, and other things that went bump in the night. An orchestra appeared and began to play classics of the 1930s. The Cooks ventured unsteadily onto the dance floor, and gallant Mr. Rawat escorted Ms. Diamond after them-she, ramrod stiff and protesting to no avail. Mr. Rawat's continental chauvinism doubtless nettled her no end.