The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life (39 page)

“When were you born?” I asked before I realized the utter impropriety of the question.

He stared at me blankly for a moment. “August 2.”

I became a little embarrassed, not knowing what to say. At last recognition shone in his face. “You mean the year,
non?
” He tossed his head back and gave a gentle laugh. “
Mais oui,
the incredibility of the year. In the early 1370s, as far as I can determine. A year after the invention of the steel crossbow.” He drew back and went through the pantomime of firing one, and then gave another gentle laugh. “Do not ask the ladies that,
monsieur.
They would take offense.”

I was mortified. How could I have allowed my curiosity to cause me to blurt out such an insolent question? As he walked by, although he was several inches from me I felt a gentle but distinct prickle of something unseen, much as if someone had gently drawn hosiery charged with static across my arm. I gave a start, but the young man did not seem overly aware of his influence.

No sooner had he advanced into the foyer than another carriage pulled up. Out of this stepped two people, a man and a woman. The woman was most fashionable, with a small-waisted, black crepe dress. Around her neck was a voluminous bow of white silk, which fell down over her bosom. She balanced a very-wide-brimmed, black-ribboned hat with poise. Her eyes were sable and her features, petite. The man wore a black suit with a thin black tie. He sported an auburn goatee.

Again I was impressed by the unassuming stylishness of their appearance.

They introduced themselves by their first names alone. The man’s was Nicolas. The woman’s was Perrenelle. They too moved in their own glow of invisible energy.

In no time at all carriage after carriage pulled up until the street was filled with them. I don’t know what I had expected: a barrage of ancient
grande dames
, powdered wigs, and medieval raiments? Whatever it was, I found myself repeatedly startled by the youthfulness and simplicity of the continuing arrivals. This was no ghoulish masquerade, this gathering of the vampire. It was a congregation as festive and everyday as if the clientele of the
Moulin de la Galettehsid
been transported here intact. It was a parade of gay bonnets, striped pink-and-blue dresses, ruffled blouses, black suits, and black-ribboned straw hats—as intoxicating and careless as if they had been plucked out of a Renoir. Only a lack of pinkness in their cheeks perhaps betrayed their nature to a discerning observer, a haunting porcelain sheen framing haunting eyes.

It is difficult to describe their attitude toward me. It was not snobbish. Aside from an overall unwillingness to shake my hand, they were all most genial. Still, there was an unexpressed something. Little cliques and gatherings formed in the foyer. As their numbers grew the electrical atmosphere of their presence became intense. It was not unlike the pall of ozone, as if a bolt of lightning had struck within the room.

I was most disquieted by this. I had always tried to understand vampirism as a pathological condition, a disease. The vast majority of my observations as well as my firmly rooted scientific positivism supported such a precept. Even des Esseintes’s ability to see the quiver I could construe as physiological. I, too, pretend to know nothing of the spiritual, but I do know there are many perceptual operations we know little or nothing about. It is easy for me to imagine that his abnormal powers of perception, and even the alleged mutation of his thinking processes were hitherto unknown, but quite natural phenomena; purely physiochemical functions of those miracles we know as the retina and the human cerebrum. But this electrical presence was not so easily explained. What was it? Why was it there? As I stood gazing at the crowd, a curious thing occurred. Three different vampire spread out across the room; all loudly snapped their thumbnails in rapid succession, but apparently utterly independent of one another.

I heard a voice behind me and turned. The first thing that caught my eye was the fiery splay of Fernande’s red hair against the lavender walls of the foyer.

Beyond, Monsieur des Esseintes descended the rosewood staircase.

It was a quarter to twelve and about two dozen vampire had arrived. Des Esseintes made his salutations, and the guests began to filter through the house. For the gathering Grelot had lit scores of additional candelabra, and although they provided more light, the increase in sources of illumination multiplied the number of shadows. Each youthful profile, each movement of the hands cast a dozen silhouettes about the walls and ceilings of the grand old home.

The atmosphere did not allay my uneasiness. I strolled into the parlor and noticed Ilga standing next to one of the doors of the orchid conservatory. She was silent as always. For the first time I realized that even among the vampire she was a freak. Her flesh hung unnaturally. Her eyes held none of their age or sparkle.

At midnight a final coach drove up, unexpectedly. I heard a murmur of voices and returned to the foyer to investigate. Grelot opened the door. There in the entrance was a dream, a shimmering vision of a woman in a black and silver striped dress. I recognized the quiescent lips, the petal eyes at once. It was Madame Villehardouin. On her hands she wore white gloves. On her wrists, gold bracelets. The portion of her bodice covering her breasts was of a white translucent cloth and over this, an endless cascade of pearls. Her hair was up and fastened with a flower. In the midpoint of her decolietage was another bloom. She clutched a glittering gold mesh purse.

Again I was swept with the fog of her beauty. Unearthly, a caliber above all mortal beauty. As I have said, even though she appeared to be in her forties, there was a tremulousness in her, an emotion brought close to the surface. Beneath the gauze of her dress I was intensely aware of her breath rushing in and out. And yet, when she moved her head, the line of her neck, the ripple of her amber flesh was like a tigress.

“Does anyone come to greet me?” she said.

“
Naturellement,
” des Esseintes returned, proffering his hand.

She slowly crossed the room to accept it.

“My invitation seems to have been lost in the mail,” she said ambiguously. “I do hope it is not an absolute requirement.”

Des Esseintes smiled and shrugged. He led her toward the parlor. The other guests seemed abnormally attentive. It was odd. Something was going on. Had des Esseintes purposefully not sent her an invitation? Was she chiding him? Why would he want to snub a member of his own species, let alone such a singular creature?

I followed them.

Much to my interest, when Ilga caught a glimpse of the Oriental, a trifle of emotion actually filled Ilga’s face. Actually, it was more than a trifle. It was a look of heartfelt dread. Des Esseintes rushed to her comfort, and took the poor thing by the shoulder into the foyer Madame Villehardouin withdrew a small Chinese pocket spittoon from her purse and proceeded to use it— delicately, but vulgarly.

Now, why was that? I caught her eye and I could tell she recognized me. But of course. She was simply using the faculties of her breed. I recalled her scanning both Lady Dunaway’s and my face like some photographic machine the first time she had seen us. There was a hint of knowing in her glance. She walked by me. Uncontrollably, I held my breath like some retiring schoolboy She was so spectacularly beautiful. As she passed I felt the palpitation of my heart. But there was one thing I did not feel: the electrical atmosphere that these other vampire possessed. I turned and watched her stroll through the crowd. Why should she alone lack the drone of energy I had first sensed in des Esseintes in the orchid conservatory, and I now perceived so strongly in his brethren?

I felt the flesh on the back of my neck crawl from an ionized presence. I turned to see Fernande standing behind me.

“What is it?” I inquired. “Wasn’t Madame Villehardouin invited to the party?”

“I suspect not.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s a rogue. She wanders free from the herd.”

“Is that why she frightens Ilga?”

“Not exactly. Do you know about Ilga?”

I shook my head.

“There was a time when Ilga was a happy, normal young woman. She was a
professeur,
a teacher of mathematics. It is said her dream was to found a university in Kiev. She was in Kiev when it was sacked by the Mongols. She was one of the unfortunate ones who survived. You may understand that better when you are aware that witnesses after the fact say that for kilometers around, the countryside was dotted with skulls. Monsieur des Esseintes found her being taken care of in a nunnery. Her soul was gone. All that was left was machine. He preserved her for his own purposes.”

“Was Madame Villehardouin one of the invaders? Is that why Ilga shuns her?”

Fernande tossed his head back and laughed. “Madame Villehardouin— part of the Mongol invasion! No, Madame Villehardouin was quite some distance removed from the slaughter. She was a creature of silk and ermine, a concubine of the Emperor. It is not Madame Villehardouin that Ilga shuns. It is the epicanthic fold of her eyes.”

Beyond the flicker of candles I saw the subject of our conversation drift gracefully into the darkness of the adjacent hall. Fernande’s words had kindled an interest in me, but what was even more intriguing was the discovery that she did not emanate the enigmatic energy. I turned to follow, but as I stepped into the crowd the same mysterious thing occurred. Independent of one and other, several of the people in the parlor loudly snapped their thumbnails.

From nowhere, Perrenelle, a deathly beauty in her black crepe, appeared in front of me. Her sable eyes glistened.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Monsieur le Docteur.”

I glanced at her impatiently as Madame Villehardouin drew farther away. “Yes?”

“Are you married?”

Her question took me quite by surprise. I looked at the young Parisian woman and noticed what I thought was an honest interest in her eyes. Did I say ‘young’? How many centuries had this pale creature seen? “Why do you ask?” I inquired.

“Because we must seem rather callous to you. We’ve taken you prisoner. We intend to keep you in captivity for the rest of your mortal life, and yet we laugh and carry on around you like youke an ignored child. Do you have someone who misses you? Are you married?”

“No,” I said. “My wife passed away a few years back.” I was touched by her sentiment.

“
Je me le regrette.
Is there anyone else? A family?” How extraordinarily concerned, I thought. But then something struck me as being not quite right. “Yes, I have two daughters,” I said, trying to figure out what it was. “I miss them very much, and I’d do anything to see them.” She shook her head disconsolately. Something about her reminded me of someone else. She continued: “It is an unfortunate world we live in. You have no idea how desolate I am over the necessity of your captivity. But fate has chosen to put two intelligent species upon this earth, the mortal and the vampire, and it is the inexorable distance between us that makes our actions necessary.”

I wanted to believe her, but then I remembered. Many years before, when I had been an interne, I had encountered a middle-aged gentleman at a medical institution I was visiting for purposes of study. He reported to me at length about his incredible adventures in Ceylon, and all the while he spoke I had been troubled. It was only as he neared the end of his tale that I realized he had little or no awareness of my presence. In fact, he was a mental patient, and everything he had said had been a lie. I suddenly realized that Perrenelle possessed the same subtle detachment from what she was saying. It was a perfunctory condolence. In truth, the complex machinations of her thoughts were a thousand miles away from the words she was speaking.

“Please forgive us if we seem ignorant of your plight. We are so different. They say we are the undead, and it is true. Our mortal sensitivities became obsolete long ago. After so many years the human in us has died.”

I looked in her eyes. I admired the whiteness of her skin, her fragile features. “Tell me, Perrenelle, if the human in you dies, does love endure?”

She looked at me for several moments, but did not answer. She turned and stared at the man with the auburn goatee. For some reason her deliberation caused my heart to stop. I realized her answer meant more to me than I would have previously suspected. The rustling of her dress, her transcendent air only added to my suspense.

“Yes,” she finally said and I experienced a flush of relief. “But it is different. We are different. We have changed.”

I sadly gazed at her one last time before I excused myself and drew away. I wandered down the corridor searching for Madame Villehardouin. I caught a glimpse of her as she rounded an immense Chinese vase, but when I reached it she was nowhere to be seen. Around the corner and out of sight I caught a fragment of conversation.

“
Mademoiselle,
does Savin continue?”

“No, a pinch of cardamom.”

“It was not ruined, was it?”

“Silk.”

“Only to taste.”

“He fell and ripped his suit.”

I turned the corner and rushed headlong into the gilt-and-turquoise sitting room only to see Grelot arriving with a silver tray and two steaming cups of coffee. A gentleman with a Hapsburg mustache took a pinch of cardamom, sprinkled it in one of the cups, and handed it to the woman he had been talking to. Both regarded me blankly. The same clicking of thumbnails passed quickly through the room.

I grew apprehensive. What did it mean? Their conversation was nonsensical. It followed no direct line of reasoning, yet there was a hint of convoluted sense to it. I suddenly remembered des Esseintes’s remark about restructuring his language in a way that we could comprehend. In a flash of wonder I understood. They had hammered it into me. Their thinking processes were different. The syntactical logic of their language had permuted, gone beyond our plodding and linear communications. I surveyed the crowd of half a dozen vampire standing in the room. In all of my experience I had never known des Esseintes to reveal a hint of nervousness. He was as placid and immutable as the Sphinx. As I scrutinized the figures before me, however, I detected a host of minute fidgetings and movements. Here a finger flexed. There a cheek twitched. I also noticed that the vampire in the room were exceedingly observant of all of this. Eyes moved languidly from movement to movement. Thumbnails clicked. It dawned on me that they were signaling one another. I have heard it said that the ancient Incas possessed a language of knotted strings. More and more I realized I had to consider the vampire a separate culture—indeed, a separate and distinct civilization existing hidden and within our own. Why wouldn’t they have developed a language just as alien and unique? The incalculable generations of their camaraderie alone would have created such a language. They knew each other like actors who had spent a lifetime on the stage together. I suspected the complexity of communication conveyed in their glances, in their most subtle gestures, was greater and more rapid than most mortal conversations.