Mina (38 page)

April 12, Lille, France.
Gance bought me this
journal in Calais. The cover is gray leather, embossed with fleur-de-lis; the pages
are parchment edged in gold. I have never written in so grand a book before.
Its beauty seems fitting somehow, as if I, like the Countess Karina, am
setting down the most important moments of my life. As I write, I feel that I
have come full circle, with this journal recording the end, as my other did
the beginning, of this adventure.

Gance and I parted from Winnie at Croyden and
went on to Dover. Our midday Channel crossing was much calmer than my last. I
even went on deck, something I had been too ill to do on our last crossing. The
cold wind blew across my face. My cheeks stung from the salt spray, yet I
gripped the rail, feeling the boat move beneath me, listening to the power of
the waves pounding against the hull.

Gance joined me, though his face seemed even
paler than usual and his lips were pressed together. He did not hide his pain
well, perhaps because he'd never felt a need to do so before. A sudden lurch of
the boat made him slip on the wet deck. He caught the rail to keep from
falling and jarred his wound. He cried out, then cut off the sound.

I pulled up a deck chair
for him and made him sit. "You should have stayed inside,” I said.

"I never miss
coming outside on a crossing,” he replied, though he took the seat gratefully.
I stood where I was, gripping

the rail, looking down
at the water so black and cold beneath us.

One of the crew noticed
me and came down, intending no doubt to suggest I go inside. He noticed Gance
sitting in the

shadows behind me and
went on with only a polite greeting.

How much easier life
would be if I had been born a man. The world would be so much kinder to my
excesses, my

eccentricities. I would
have no need of protection from Gance or Jonathan or anyone.

We spent the night at a
tiny stone inn in Lille. Gance made no advances save that he kissed me before
rolling over and

going to sleep.

I lay awake thinking of
Jonathan. By now he must know that I have left him. Has he gone to Seward? I
alternate

between fear for what I have done and incredible joy that I have
at last freed myself from all the restraints, all the secrets that bound me.

April 17, Paris.
We've stayed here five
days in the beautiful stone house of a friend of Gance's, an aged artist whom I
will not name or describe too closely for his sake. The crossing was hard on
Gance, and he is taking something for the pain.

Nonetheless, his
constitution is so strong that healing continues quickly.

I have my own room. It has an iron balcony and
stairs leading down to a magnificent courtyard. There, among the carefully
tended flower beds, is tin ornate stone-and-tile fountain and delicate iron
chairs and tables for guests. I often drink coffee there in the morning with
our host. He asked me to pose for him soon after we arrived. It passes the
time, and he paints while I sit and read. He is u delightful conversationalist,
well traveled and well versed in folk legends and beliefs.

Yesterday, as I sat sideways on the bench,
posing as he requested with my hair falling over my shoulders, my chin resting
on my hand, my legs slightly apart, with the fabric falling between them (a
position Millicent would undoubtedly describe as "hoydenish"), he
told me the most incredible story about a woman who turned into u werewolf
while mesmerized. He said that this beautiful woman-titled, he added, as if
this made even her transformation even more bizarre-howled and bared her
teeth, then returned to the present to describe quite vividly having devoured a
lamb.

"Do you believe
it?" I asked when he'd finished.

"I saw it,” he replied.
"Isn't that
enough?" "I may have been mesmerized as well,” he concluded with a
dry laugh.

I wondered how much
Gance had told him, or if the man had seen the mark still so dark on Gance's
neck and guessed

my obsession. There is
no way to ask. Yet the man's point is a valid one.

I pray that when we
finally reach the castle, we find no one there at all.

After my last sitting,
he invited me to see the nearly finished portrait. I walked around to the easel
and stared at a

woman far too beautiful to be me, with her lips slightly parted as
if ready to speak, someone with both trust and passion in her eyes.

"It is a fine
likeness, don't you think?" my host asked.

"Is it?"

"Oh, yes. I painted
your soul as well as your face.” He raised my hand to his lips then looked
directly into my eyes. "If

you ever need a friend,
or a place to stay for a while, come to me,” he said.

"Thank you. "

He must have sensed that / would not impose, for
he quickly added, "I could think of a dozen portraits to do of you the way
Dante did with his Lizzie. But unlike Rossetti, I'm far too old to demand
anything but your undivided attention and some small bit of adoration for my
genius. "

"Not that old, I
think,” I replied, for though his face was lined, he was also terribly thin,
which made him seem older.

"Then you are too
young,” he replied smoothly.

I laughed. Actually,
sitting with him in the little enclosed garden with the sound of falling water,
the sun on my face, the

easel and scent of oils,
I felt more at ease than I've been since this ordeal began.

April 19
. Last night Gance
dressed and joined us for dinner. We dined in the courtyard and, after the
meal, extinguished all the lights and sat beneath the stars drinking wine. It
was another night of carefree conversation, all the wittier because of Gance's
presence. And yet, perhaps because our host is so genuinely kind, I see the
emptiness at Gance's core, and know his wit is nothing more than an
intellectual exercise.

Dracula, it is said, no
longer has a soul. Gance, of course, does, but he hides it so well. It's no
wonder that I was

attracted to him. But
later he did something so inexplicably at odds with his usual behavior that I
cannot comprehend it.

We retired together. I thought he would say good
night at my door as he has every night, but instead he followed me inside and
kissed me with that intensity I have come to know so well. His hands moved as
they always move, so skillfully over my body. As always, I wanted to give him
the intensity of pleasure that he gives me. I reached for him and caressed him,
but as soon as he began to stiffen under my touch, I heard him gasp in
surprise. His hand covered mine and pulled it away. "Not yet,” he
whispered.

And though he kissed me
and though his hands continued to pleasure me, he would not enter me or allow
me to straddle

him. Finally, unable to
respond any further to his touch, I lay beside him. "Does your wound pain
you so much?" I asked.

He did not answer, only moved away from me on the bed and said
quietly, "I wish. . . " l waited; he never finished "You
wish?" I asked.

"I wish I'd met you
years ago." He brushed my cheek then added ruefully, "I suppose my
near death just makes me

sentimental. You could
not have altered my life even then."

I put on my chemise and
stole across the hall to my room. Before going to bed, I stood on the balcony
for a few moments

and noticed my host sitting in the dark courtyard, his white robe
just visible in the dim starlight. I wondered if he had fallen asleep or if he
sat alone with his thoughts. I wondered what he thought of Gance and me, if he
had some guess as to where we were going and what we would face.

We decided at breakfast
to leave tonight. There is a private car available, and Gance hopes that by
beginning the

journey with a night of
sleep, he'll be even stronger in the morning.

He seems in a greater hurry than I am. Actually,
since I made my decision to go, my nights have been restful and without dreams.
Often I think it's because now that I am going to that castle, whatever wants
me to return there grants me some peace.

April 20, early morning.
Our private car is at
the end of the train. There are gilt moldings around the top and a pair of crystal
chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Though we did not hire, any servants, we
seem to have acquired one anyway, a tiny Indian man who politely let us know
that he would do his best to meet our every demand. Gance whispered an order to
him, and he returned some time later with champagne and a cold plate of pate
and cheeses. He bowed with exaggerated

servility before leaving
us.

I told Gance of how
wondrous it seemed to travel in such luxury. He responded by pouring me more
champagne and

saying with a wry smile
that he was too used to it to see it as anything but common.

"Are you in
pain?" I asked.

"A little. I'll
check the wound in the morning. "

I saw the need growing
in the intensity with which his gray eyes focused on my face and my body. As
quickly as desire

rose, it vanished.
"I should sleep,” he said.

I knew that raising his
arm was still painful so I helped him undress. Once he was in bed, I turned
down the lights nearest

him, said good night and went buck to my place at the front of the
car. He did not ask me to join him, and I didn't feel inclined to make the
first overture. Though Gance volunteered to come on this journey with me, now
that we are constantly together, there is little real intimacy between us. In
the past, all our discourse began and ended with sex.

As I write this, I think
of Jonathan-his vulnerability, his need for comfort and how, in spite of his
terror of that castle and

the things that lived
there, he risked his life and his soul for me.

I am thankful that I
left him behind. He has done enough. It is my turn to be brave now. I pray my
courage does not fail.

We have just pulled out
of Strasbourg. When I wake tomorrow, we will be somewhere in Germany. At least
I will have

little time to reflect
on the danger I face.

TWENTY-FOUR

After Mina had left, Winnie took
over her fund-raising duties and cut back on her work in the hospital wards.
The social calls, the witty conversation over tea, the constant presentations
of hospital needs took Winnie's mind off Mina and the terrible journey she had
undertaken.

One
afternoon, when she had stopped at the hospital to catch up on some work, a
volunteer nurse walked by the tiny office. "We

didn't expect to see you
today," she said. "Since you're here, you might want to look at the
mail piling up in your box."

"Mail?"
Winnie went to investigate and found a number of letters and flyers as well as
some larger packages. She opened the

packages, mostly donations of
bandages and other supplies, and stuffed the envelopes in her handbag.

At home, she passed the time until dinner reading the letters.
There were the usual notes of thanks, many from the children who had been
treated at the hospital. Among them was a large envelope with no return
address. By the time she pulled the sheets from it, she had guessed what it
must be. With shaking hands, she looked down at manuscript pages, then read the
unsigned note that accompanied them. It had been printed as if the sender
wanted to hide even a small link to his identity.

Mrs. Beason. On his last
day of life, Anton Ujvari left an envelope with me. He made me swear that,
should something

happen to him, I would
send it to you. I confess that after he disappeared, I read its contents.

When I heard the details
of how he died, I wavered. I very nearly gave these sheets to the police, but I
know it is not

what Mr. Ujvari wanted
and, from how he spoke of you, that you would have had nothing to do with his
terrible end.

If there had
been a way to contact Mina, Winnie would have waited to read this account.
Under the circumstances, however, she

could hardly be blamed for
reading it herself.

She sat in a
rocking chair close to the little fire. As she began reading, she recalled the
likeness of the countess that Mina had

shown her-her delicate
features, her golden curls, her tiny red lips in their tight, willful bow.

My desperate search for the man I had met was
eventually found out, and I was confined to the house, and the gardens surrounding
it, while my mother, deciding that I was having a liaison with some poor
peasant lad, made plans to leave. I did not protest. Indeed, convinced that I
was spurned here as I had been at court, my despondency made me unusually pliant.

Late
one night, I woke and saw a woman standing by my bed. Though the room was
sultry, her hands were cool and dry as she brushed back the locks of hair from
my forehead. I knew the servants. She was not one of them. Besides, a servant would
not have been allowed in my chamber without my request.

Nonetheless, I was not
afraid. "What is your name?" I asked.