The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life (27 page)

“Ah, yes,” des Esseintes returned. “Shall we leave these dreary surroundings?”

We both nodded and followed as he led us past the falcon. It hopped down behind us. When we reached the first floor I saw that the house was a hubbub of activity. The women were all busy cleaning the foyer. They were dressed simply in black and magenta dresses trimmed in white lace. The older boys were polishing the glass globes containing the bullrushes as the youngest boy replaced candles. Grelot supervised everything.

Des Esseintes paused to point out some detail that needed polishing, and I took advantage of the distraction to move closer to Lady Dunaway. “Didn’t you hear me last night?” I whispered.

She looked at me surreptitiously “What?”

“Two nights in a row now I’ve heard voices and a movement in the water and I’ve called out to you. But you don’t answer.”

She pursed her brow. “Do you call loudly?”

“Yes, last night there was a rat in my room and I fairly screamed.”

“That’s impossible. I heard nothing.”

Des Esseintes pointed at an icon high on the wall that needed straightening and the young boy clambered up to fix it.

Lady Dunaway went on in a hush, “I’m a very light sleeper and I didn’t hear a thing. Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“Of course not, I’m positive I—” I began, but des Esseintes once again turned to us. He made a gesture to follow him. Instead of going up the rosewood staircase he led us down a corridor to the left of the lavender foyer. This was lined with various alabaster statues of women. Some of them were life-sized nudes and others, busts and partial heads. All of them were done in a style that more closely resembled faces and body parts trying to break through sheets of wet gauze than statues. It took me a minute to realize they were of a single person, a woman, and in the midst of the frozen throng my eyes finally came to rest on a portrait.

Once again it was the same thirtyish lady, a frail wisp of a woman with meek brown eyes and spinsterly drawn hair. There was something a little different about the painting. In the statues she moved, lounged, danced. Occasionally there was anguish in the stone liknesses, but it was the anguish of a being struggling to be born, to free itself from the marble. It was the painting that revealed a deep melancholy. In front of the painting was a table, an altar of sorts, on which were assembled several simple but elegant long-stemmed vases. Each contained a purple orchid.

“Will you wait here please,” des Esseintes murmured. He went to the opposite side of the corridor and unlocked a cupboard. Inside was a camera on a tall black tripod with a hood and flashboard.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Take your photograph.”

“Why?”

“For my scrapbook.”

“That’s a fine to-do. You keep a scrapbook of all of your human prisoners? How many of these pleasant forget-me-nots have you amassed?”

He carefully positioned the tripod and then looked up at us. “You amuse me, Monsieur le Docteur. I was joking about the scrapbook. I am taking your pictures as a precaution. There may come a time when I need such photographs.”

“I don’t understand.”

“
Smile.
”

“What possible need could you have—”

The magnesium powder went off in a burst of white light. Des Esseintes came out from under the hood. “Very nice. I think I captured Lady Dunaway’s trenchant beauty perfectly.”

Lady Dunaway blushed.

The vampire withdrew the photographic plate and handed it to Grelot, who had appeared with a silver tray. He carried it away officiously. Des Esseintes gathered the photographic paraphernalia together and once again locked it in the cupboard. He motioned us on.

At last he paused in front of one of the doors and pushed it open. Inside was an explosion of deep turquoise and gold, a simple and stunningly symmetrical Art Nouveau sitting room. It was in the Japanese style with wainscoted walls, upper walls painted with blue and gilt peacocks, and a black-lacquered fan-vaulted ceiling. There were carpets and pillows on the floor, a low table, a hookah, and a number of potted palms.

“The room was designed by Thomas Jeckyll, perhaps you’ve heard of him?” des Esseintes boasted as I caught a glimpse of the falcon watching us from outside the doorway. “The peacocks were painted by the American painter, J. McNeill Whistler.”

I once again admired the rich and exquisite room as the Frenchman motioned for us to sit upon the pillows. When I glanced at the hookah I remembered Geneviève telling us how des Esseintes always had them smoke before he suckled them. Des Esseintes seemed not unlike a Chinese camprador on his opium mat. I experienced a flush of alarm.

“What is the matter?” our host asked. He gazed at me for a second and then his face lit knowingly. “Oh, yes, yes... you’re probably wondering how I know something is the matter. I forgot, I must explain things to you. I’m so used to being around my own kind.” He removed what appeared to be a small ivory snuff box from the inside pocket of his jacket. “There’s a quiver in the air. I have seen the quiver for so long that I forgot you cannot see it. It’s similar to what you might see if you stared at a splay of frost on a window through a magnifying glass—a delicate cross-hatching that’s so transparent it takes most vampire many lifetimes before it suddenly pops into their vision and they wonder why they ignored it for so long. We are like magnets in a box of needles; when we walk, we affect the quiver. Even our emotions—like the tinge of alarm you just felt—changes the pattern in the frost.”

He took a dried crimson substance from the snuff box and placed it in the hookah as a second flicker of realization went across his face. “Ohh, Geneviève’s been telling you about our personal habits. You needn’t worry. This is not a feeding. But it was only a tinge, wasn’t it? You’re not really afraid of me, are you?”

“No,” I said, “I’m not afraid of you in an emotional sense. Neither do I trust you. What are you putting into the hookah?”

“It’s substance I create myself from orchids. You must have guessed my hobby is orchids.”

He lit the hookah and inhaled. A very subtle but pleasant smell, not unlike the scent of camomile cigarettes, filled the air. “It’s really quite enjoyable. Would you like to try it?”

“What does it do to one?”

“I couldn’t begin to tell you. All I can tell you is that it is enjoyable to me.”

“No, thank you,” I returned. “I would never take anything into my lungs that I had not studied completely.”

“I admire your caution,” he said, nodding. He turned to Lady Dunaway. “And you?”

She blinked, a little shocked that a gentleman would offer such an indiscretion to a lady. Her eyes played back and forth between us for a moment. She demurred politely.

“Funny...” he said wistfully. “I rather thought you would.” He smiled faintly at my compatriot. “I know your name, but would you recite it for me?”

She looked at him curiously. “Lady Hespeth Dunaway,” she repeated.

“Hespeth...” He allowed the sound to roll slowly over his tongue as he took another puff. “That’s a very old name. Did you know that?”

She nodded, still not quite following what he was saying.

“That’s another thing you’re probably not aware of. Names are often much more transient creatures than you realize. For example, there are many young men named Paul and Marc today, bat these names may not last forever. They may die, just as Childeric and Pepin have died. Even my beloved Paris has not always been called Paris. I first knew the city as
Lutèce.
For centuries and centuries, since the time of Caesar, it was
Lutèce.
And then, under the reign of Clovis, it became
Paris.
It was named after the
Parisii,
the first tribal community to settle on these two tiny islands. These islands are very old, you know. In any case, I like your name. Hespeth. That is what I shall call you if you would allow me to.” Lady Dunaway melted into a smile. I could tell she was endeared by the gesture.

Des Esseintes turned once again toward me. “I have not forgotten that you said you don’t trust me. I think that is wise on your part. May I ask, is there any particular reason you don’t trust me?”

I was surprised by the question. “Isn’t it obvious? Because Niccolo deceived me and took my daughter.”

“So for you there is wisdom in mistrust?”

“Yes.”

“I am glad to hear you say that because you may more readily understand my own position. I have thought about it a great deal and I am forced to the conclusion that I must also mistrust you. I’m afraid you and Hespeth must remain my prisoners for an indefinite length of time—” I’m sure our shock registered in the quiver. “What about our children?” Lady Dunaway asked frantically.

“Indefinite?” I retorted. “How long is indefinite?” I was incensed, but I contained my temper. “Oh, how long do we mortals live, anyway?” I asked mockingly. “A mere sixty years? It will be like keeping a pet, a bird locked up for a while, won’t it?”

“I was hoping we could deal with this without such hard feelings—”

“You’re talking about the rest of bur lives.”

“Monsieur le Docteur,” he said placidly, “how many times must I remind you that it was you who broke into my home. I did not invite you. I did not ask for this situation.” He took another healthy puff from the hookah and sank back against the pillows. A faint smile crossed his face as he closed his eyes pleasurably and twitched once or twice. “What was it the caterpillar said in
Alice in Wonderland?
Take a bite from one side and you grow. Take a bite from the other side and you... get small?”

I found his enigmatic sense of humor flippant and irritating.

“Come, come,” he continued, “I think you are only looking at the bad side of the matter. You forget what an opportunity you have in meeting a creature such as myself. You must remember, I am even much older than this vampire you speak of, this Niccolo. Think about it. I am as ancient to him as he was to you. That makes me a different creature entirely. Why, you haven’t the faintest glimmer of the fantastical things swirling about in this narrow skull.” He fanned his slender hands. “Oh... the things I could teach you; the stories I could tell. I’ve lived the lives of dozens of men. I’ve moved through a world that is alien and dazzling to you. I could even make you enjoy staying here, I could hypnotize you with my words.” I greeted this remark with mixed emotions. He was quite correct. I yearned more than anything to probe the vastness of his memories, but I also prickled at the thought of abandoning my pursuit. I felt compelled to speak. “My good Monsieur des Esseintes, I’m sure you could tell me much, but I can inform you with utter conviction, nothing will ever make me give up my search for my daughter.”

Instead of replying he merely gave another odd smile and pulled a tasseled cord. In moments Geneviève brought in a tray of cordial glasses and a bottle of Crème de Cassis. As she poured the syrupy reddish-purple liquid I noticed she was glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. As soon as I detected this she quickly turned away and left the room.

Lady Dunaway and I watched our host.

“Come now, isn’t there anything you’d like to ask me? Isn’t there something about the vampire you would like to know?”

A myriad of questions suddenly swept through my mind: the nature of their condition, the extent of their knowledge. In the kaleidoscope of my curiosity I once again saw a flash of lightning, a stone hand, the sunken eyes of the Alexandrian scribe. “Yes,” I said. “Tell us about Lodovico.”

A hesitant excitement spread over Lady Dunaway’s face. Her eyes widened fatuously behind the thick lenses of her spectacles.

“Ahhh, Lodovico. I knew I could draw you into a story. That is why I had the cordial brought in.” He took another rapturous inhalation from the hookah and blew the smoke out in a billowy cloud. The glassiness of his eyes increased. “I will tell you how I first learned of Lodovico. It was in the Middle Ages. To begin, I must tell you how I became a vampire.” His eyes flashed. “I know you won’t mind.” He nestled deeper into his pillow.

“It was very long ago... oh, so
very
long ago. As I have told you, I was born during the time of Charlemagne, and what a different world it was. Believe it or not, I was a simple man. My beginnings were very simple. I grew up in the beautiful valley of the Rhone River. My parents were freemen, but rented land from a wealthy baron who owned vineyards. We helped grow the grapes for the Burgundy the baron produced, a very good Burgundy, heady and sumptuously red. Even as a child I was fascinated with the process, with the growing of the grapes, the way the tendrils curled up the runners. The flowers. The buzzing of the bees, everywhere, over everything. I had a mind for such things.

“When I was a young man I took over my parents’ portion of the work. I married. I had children. I was still fascinated with the bees and I began to observe and understand their role in the vineyards. My mind burgeoned with ideas, and it wasn’t long before I was experimenting with the little insects, causing them selectively to pollinate various varieties of grapes. I did many incredible things, things that had never been seen before. I controlled the plants. I modified their growth and output, influenced their very chemistry, much like the baron controlled us. Only with passion. You see, I am of the opinion that plants are our dearest friends. I also believe they are the greatest little research laboratories in the world. If you have a rapport with them, know how to coax and pamper them, you can get them to do anything.

“Within a few years I doubled the quality of the baron’s wine and tripled his production. Word of my achievements spread throughout the valley and the provinces and soon other landowners were coming to visit me to learn of my methods.”

Des Esseintes’s voice became softer.

“Alas, the baron did not like this. He forbade me to reveal any of my secrete, but, alas, I did not like that. You see, at that time I felt the wisdom of nature was for all to share. I was angered and bitter. I continued to tell anyone who asked, knowing full well that the wrath of the baron would be severe.”

Des Esseintes took a final puff on the hookah and pushed it away. With this I noticed there was something visibly different about his face. His eyes were unusually shiny and a veritable hum of energy seemed to come from the tranquil visage. He leaned forward and poured us each another drink.