The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life (24 page)

The wispy creature in a nightgown swept off as the Slavic woman lifted a candelabrum high above her head, and the three of us—our host, Lady Dunaway, and myself—followed her down the hall in the opposite direction of the rosewood staircase. The monk walked beside us, watching us, and to my surprise I noticed that his walk possessed the same subtle but unusual rhythm I had first noticed in Niccolo. I had attributed Mr. Cavalanti’s gait to the injury of his legs, but the Gallic gentleman moved with a similar graceful and faintly alien syncopation. It was like the walk of very tall animals, of giraffes and okapis. It was such a subtle carriage and movement I was not at all surprised Lady Dunaway had not observed it in the Italian. I glanced ahead and noticed that the Slavic woman walked with a hint of the gait as well.

We went up another set of stairs and down still another hall until we came to a door. The monk pushed it open. The room was large and had a spacious window and balcony overlooking the tops of other houses, with Notre-Dame brooding in the distance. Notre-Dame somehow exemplified the mood of the entire view from that window. The sleeping city. The silence. Stars glistened faintly in the black sky, and the muggy summer air rustled through the room. The monk entered and began to light candles.

In the increasing light various features of the room became visible. It was long and wide, with plain stone walls and floor. Niches sheltered rosaries and icons, and a meditation mat rested before the window. The right-hand portion of the chamber was considerably leas austere. There were Art Nouveau bookcases brimming with hundreds of volumes, a conference table of ebonized wood and inlaid with painted panels of swans, a huge convex mirror, gold brocade and tasseled tapestries, wooden chairs, and an ebony desk. Sitting on the conference table was a most curious object. It was made of carved cherry and looked like an empty picture frame standing upright on a three-legged stand. It was not unlike the type of frame one normally saw embroidery or needlework samplers displayed in. On closer examination I realized it contained a beautiful and complex spiderweb, diaphanous and unprotected by glass or backsheet.

There was more to the room, much more. In an alcove was an incredibly crafted Louis XV tulipwood and marquetry
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with two Chinese porcelain herons sitting on top of it. On the floor was a finely woven Persian kilim, and dozens of neatly framed pieces of artwork cluttered every square inch of wall space. They were all drawings, prints, and paintings by French artists of the day—a profusion of Moreaus and Redons, Puvis de Chavanneses, Bresdins, and Carrières, along with works of lesser artists, Boldini, Delville, Desboutin, and Osbert. I also noticed stacks upon stacks of notes and letters on what I assumed to be our host’s cluttered desk—a clockwork planetarium, a dragon candelabrum, racks of test tubes, bottles, apothecaries, and flasks with candles sooting their bottoms. Notes also cascaded out of every nook and pigeonhole in the room, above and between the books, in stacks and bundles against the walls, and out of the partially opened drawers of the desk and
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, some of them written on fresh yellow paper, and some dark with mold and age.

It was the room of a most eclectic personality.

“I suppose introductions are in order,” our host finally murmured. He pointed at the Slavic woman. “This is Ilga.” He lit a final candle. “... and I am des Esseintes.” He motioned for us to take seats around the conference table. “May I see your papers, please?”

Lady Dunaway and I looked at each other. We were helpless to do anything but comply. We handed him our papers. He thumbed through them slowly, examining the visa markings with the greatest of care. He even held the pages up to the candlelight and scrutinized the watermark. “They seem legitimate.”

“I assure you they are,” I said.

“There is one final test.” He stood and went over to his ebony desk, scanning the racks of test tubes until he discovered one dusty with age. Next he procured a scalpel from one of the cluttered drawers. He cut a small scrap of paper from each of the passports and placed them into respective flasks. Finally, he poured a little of the reagent from the dusty test tube into each flask and began heating one over the candle. Within about a minute it began to bubble and turned a deep Prussian blue. He looked at me and smiled. “Your passport is legitimate.”

“I told you it was,” I said, a little ruffled.

He gazed emotionlessly at Lady Dunaway and began to heat the second flask. We waited. At last bubbles began to form. It, too, turned deep blue. He smiled and nodded at my companion.

With that last gesture the elderly butler returned with the falcon perched on his gloved hand. It no longer wore its hood, and it kept its dark eyes trained upon us.

“Dr. Gladstone and Lady Dunaway,” he introduced politely.

The butler and his falcon remained standing by the door. He gave an ever-so-slight bow as a trace of amusement crossed his lips. “This is Grelot,” des Esseintes said, pointing at the man. “... ‘little bell.’” Again the butler smiled, not the least abashed by the demeaning name. The vampire returned to the table. “May I ask how you discovered Madame Villehardouin’s house?”

“Through the Services en Commun,” Lady Dunaway returned. “Because of the amount of gas she uses.”

Des Esseintes smiled. “I’ve always told her to use candles. They’re so much more difficult to trace. I place small orders with several different shops every month, no large quantities, and under assumed names.” He paused. “And I’ve also designed the house so that most of the windows facing outward are always dark. That way no one can tell what hours I keep.”

“You are an extremely cautious individual,” I remarked. “I have to be. One little slip and all is lost. By the way, Monsieur le Docteur, according to your visa markings you have not been out of the country for twenty years. You never travel?”

“No.”

“May I ask why?”

“My work is my world.”

“A man after my own heart,” he said, and his smile seemed just the faintest hint more sincere. He turned to my companion. “Lady Dunaway, your papers were issued but a few months ago. However, they indicate you possessed previous papers and lost them. May I ask how you lost them?”

“My son inadvertently destroyed them,” she said without faltering, and I noticed des Esseintes watch the pulse in her temples as she replied. “Why?” she countered.

“Because this loss seems suspiciously convenient to me. Perhaps you are covering up where you have been.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Perhaps your travels would reveal too much about yourself.
Par exemple,
we know that a lot of vampire hunting has been taking place in certain cities. If more than a chance number of these cities showed up in your visa markings it would be most telling.
Enfin,
your papers have just been renewed, and I am left wondering. Are you a vampire hunter?” Again his gaze focused on her temples.

“Certainly not,” she snapped. “It was the vampire who first hunted us.”

“I think you are telling the truth, but you do not mind if I make one final check.” Before we could reply he turned to the wide-eyed Slavic woman. “Lady Hespeth Constantina Dunaway,” he read from her papers. “Born December 21, 1854, in Plymouth, England. Husband, Lord Lucien Dunaway. Is there any record of previous involvement?”

“No,” Ilga replied simply.

“Family occupations?”

“Military and financial. A great-uncle in academics.” Our host’s interests were piqued. “What sort of academics?”

“Sir William Limmeridge, born August 7, 1812, in Plymouth, England, D. Ph. in Indian history, and D. Lit. in ancient Hindu texts.”

I might have been mistaken, but our host seemed a little relieved. Lady Dunaway’s eyes were wide with incredulity.

“Ilga has a perfect memory,” the monkish vampire explained. “I’ve had her commit all available social and scientific registers to those incredible gray cells of hers.”

“May I ask if you were particularly interested in Ilga’s reference to academics?” I interrupted.

He turned to me calmly. “Yes, I was. I am a scientist myself I have many involvements with the scientific world, and I am extremely suspicious. Now let me ask you. You say it was the vampire who first hunted you. Would you please elaborate upon that?”

She related the entire story of our children, and when she mentioned the name Lodovico I thought I detected Grelot raising an eyebrow. After she finished des Esseintes took a long and measured breath.

“I’m afraid I know nothing of your children.”

“Do you know the name Lodovico?” I asked.

He glanced slowly at the butler and back at us. “There is not a vampire alive who has not heard the name Lodovico.”

The butler expelled his breath, almost as if relieved.

The monk’s expression suddenly crumpled into sympathy. “Gentle lambs, I cannot lie to you. I guess there is no harm in telling. I knew Lodovico once.”

Grelot straightened angrily, causing the spiderweb to twitch. Ilga reached out and steadied it. “Why do you tell them anything?” the human exclaimed.

“You have already told them with your eyebrows,” des Esseintes murmured.

“You do not have to elaborate.”

“It is harmless information.”

“The less they know the better.”

“They already know too much,” he said and smiled sadly at me. “As I say, my involvements with Lodovico were in the past. I can shed no light on his present activities.” He smiled oddly at Lady Dunaway. “I have no idea why he might be collecting idiots savants.” And then he chuckled. “Forgive me, forgive me, it is not that I don’t understand the emotions of your situation. It is just that such a flair for the macabre is after my own heart.”

“Wait a second,” Lady Dunaway broke in. “We know Lodovico was here.” She turned to me. “The stone hand. The postmark.” She explained the story.

Des Esseintes sat upright and seemed a little disturbed. “Lodovico... on the tie Saint-Louis?” He looked once again at the butler and shrugged his shoulders. He turned to Lady Dunaway “If what you say is correct, Lodovico must have been here. It is not unusual that he would not contact me. We have not seen each other for a very long time.”

“Old friends don’t keep in touch?” I chided, remembering Niccolo’s lies.

“As I say, it has been a
very
long time.” He pushed away from the table and walked over to the darkness of the window. The light of the candles flickered over his beaked nose. He regarded me sternly. “Do you have any idea how much time my life covers, how many vampire I have known over the years, Monsieur le Docteur?” He shuddered. “I am over a thousand years old. I was born the month Charlemagne was defeated by the Basques. I became a vampire the year the rose was first introduced to Europe. I took my monastic vows the year Charlemagne died.” He gestured at the window. “And still it was over three centuries before they would even begin building Notre-Dame.” When he said the name of the ancient church I was struck by the quaver of emotion in his voice. I hadn’t hitherto noticed it, but it was rare for any true emotion to surface in the mechanical lilt of his speech. But the words “Notre-Dame” he gave a special, almost passionate valence. “So you see, Docteur, when I say I knew Lodovico a
very
long time ago, what I am telling you is that he is as relevant to my present life as your great-great-grandfather is to yours.” With that he drifted into a silent meditation upon the chiaroscuro cathedral in the distance.

His words shook the very foundations of my scientific understandings of the world. It had been easier, somehow, to comprehend Niccolo’s age. Niccolo had always been a magical creature to me, and there was the painting. But now here was a young man, younger than I, a normal-looking man nearly twice the age of Leonardo’s angel. A monk older than Notre-Dame itself. A man whose flesh was resilient and unwrinkled who might have known Charlemagne. Part of me could not accept it. What was it then? A ruse? My own insanity? No, he was here before us, like the statue of Lodovico. He was real, another signpost to the staggering scope and meaning of the vampire. I looked at Lady Dunaway and saw that she was just as filled with distrustful wonder. In contemplating this I was struck by one of his remarks.

“Did you say you became a vampire before you took your monastic vows?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t that very dangerous, being a vampire and entering the Church?”

“My good Docteur, the Church was filled with vampire.” I was shocked, but I tried not to reveal it in my expression.

“You seem surprised at that,” he said.

“It’s a little ironic in view of the myth that vampire are supposed to be repelled by the cross.”

“But not so strange,
monsieur,
if you think about it. The Middle Ages, the Dark Ages, were not darker for anyone more than they were for us. There was no learning, only savagery. Everywhere there was danger, the atrocities of the feudal states, superstition, and violence. We are immortals. We had interests and goals as different from medieval humans as yours today are from them. The safest place for us was in the monasteries and the convents, secluded in the forests and the mountains. There we were allowed to be completely reclusive and apart from the world. We had our libraries and our artworks.”

An unpropitious twinkle crept into his blue-white eyes. “But come now, my good Docteur, haven’t you ever wondered why the Catholic Church is so prepossessed with drinking blood?” He basked in the uneasiness his remark created in us. “Let me choose something at random,” he continued, “the Vesper Hymn for the Festival of Easter.
Ad coenam agni providi et stolis albis candidi
—The Lamb invites us to His meal, in white garments, radiant and pure.
Cuius corpus sanctissimum in ara crucis torridum cruore eius roseo gustando vivimus deo
—He offers us His most holy body, sacrificed on the altar of the Cross, He gives us His blood to drink, and we live in God.” He chortled.

The butler shifted his weight impatiently.

“Enough talk of me,” des Esseintes assented. “I know nothing of your children or Lodovico. The real issue at hand is what to do with you.”