Nocturnes and Other Nocturnes (17 page)
Read Nocturnes and Other Nocturnes Online
Authors: Claude Lalumière
I ask, “Like, dude, how old are you?”
He sits next to me and clasps my hand between both of his. The way my whole hand can be cupped inside his palms makes me feel even smaller. “I wish I knew. My memory is unreliable. Sometimes, in my dreams, I think I recall the distant past, as far back as before humans evolved. Sometimes, I think I remember not always having this humanlike shape. I have dim memories of once having journals, of reading about my past in them, but I lost them in a fire in the late 1800s. That’s my earliest firm memory. A fire in London. Some days, I feel that memory starting to slip away, but I try to hold on to it. I remember that, even after the fire, I had other, earlier memories, but they have since eroded away. My mind can only hold so much time, and so my past eludes me, disintegrates with age. I call myself
vampire
simply because nothing satisfies my hunger quite like human blood, and other elements of the myth seem to apply to me as well.”
“So, like, you run away from crosses, you can’t stand the sun – shit like that?”
“Religious icons have no effect on me. More superstition. Though I am vulnerable to sunlight, albeit much less so if my hunger has recently been sated.”
Why the hell is he telling me all this? He’s just taunting me. He’s gonna kill me as soon as I totally relax and trust him. Just to satisfy some perverse, monstrous kink.
He laughs. And I remember: he can read my mind. “What gave you the courage to ring my doorbell was concern for my welfare. Why shouldn’t I trust you? Why are you so suspicious of my motives?”
I almost believe him. Or is he somehow forcing his will on me, mesmerising me in some way to trust him?
“Oh, and I can’t actually read your mind. But, like many humans, you broadcast your thoughts and feelings more overtly than you believe. Your smell, your posture, your face, your pheromones ... it’s all quite transparent. But, yes, I can exert some control over your will. It would do no good to either of us if you were to scream or do something silly like that. But I’ve been gradually lessening my hold over you. You are grudgingly starting to accept the truth.”
I blurt out the question that’s been nagging at me most: “So, like, why are you playing hero and saving people?”
“I saw those boys threaten you, and I recognized you as the girl who lives across the hall from me. I was hungry anyway, so I attacked them. Fed on them. But then, as I rescued you, I felt something ... something ... good. I tried it again, saving other people. Alas, it never gave me the same sense of satisfaction as that first time with you. So I’ve stopped playing vampire hero. What matters is that you’re here now. That we are connected. Isn’t this what you want? What we both want?”
What he just said makes me feel all tingly, but I struggle to stay focused. “Well, that’s all nice and shit, but now the police might find you anyway, even if you’re giving up the vigilante thing. They know what you look like now. We gotta do something about that.”
“
We
should?”
And just like that I see how my whole life can change.
“Yeah. ‘We’ should. You want me around just as much as I want to be around you. You may be some way-old bad-ass vampire and shit, but you’re not exactly subtle. Maybe we want different things, but maybe we can come up with a plan that’ll let you feed, preferably on, like, bad people who don’t deserve to live anyway, while you stay hidden from the cops. I mean, you need to eat, right? You might as well do some good at the same time. I’m already involved, you know. I want in.” What I don’t say, but he probably knows anyway, is how much I need this. Something that no-one from my family or my town could ever even imagine. Something so out of this world that I’ll be able to forget all about where I come from. “Now ... Tell me: exactly what kind of powers do you have? And weaknesses. Your history. Your name. Whatever you remember. All that shit. Tell me everything.”
And, like, his deep, deep dark eyes light up, and he says, “You’re right. I do ... I mean,
we
need to make sure I cannot be recognized.” Without asking, he plunges his teeth into my already punctured wrist.
~
So, like, he stops sucking on me and then smiles affectionately at me. He likes me, I can tell. Shit.
He likes me
? What am I? A puppy dog? I guess, to him, that is what I am. Beats being a pig in a slaughterhouse. I mean, I’d rather be his pet than his next full-course meal – the occasional nibble and suck notwithstanding.
As soon as the thought crosses my mind, he takes my other arm – the one he hasn’t bitten yet – and he bites me again. But he gives in return, too: the whole time he’s sucking, I’m, like, coming. Not a big, wild, scream-your-head-off orgasm, but a slow wave of deep pleasure. Whoa! Close enough to sex for me.
Still, I can’t help but worry about all these holes in my skin. I mean, I won’t exactly be inconspicuous at work tomorrow.
Withdrawing from me, he licks his lips and says, “Don’t worry; the wounds will be gone by sunrise.” Then he grins, like a little brat. “Oh, and that little extra I gave you—” He, like, fucking actually leers at me. What a hypocrite! Farm animal, my ass. But I’m not complaining. “—I can control that. I don’t give that to my victims. And you are no victim.” Gotta say, dude knows the words to make this girl feel special.
He opens my blouse, and his teeth fasten onto my shoulder. And it’s, like, bliss. Heaven.
~
So, like, did I black out again? I’m so fucking dizzy. The vampire is holding my hand. It’s kinda cute.
“So, dude, fess up. We’re a team, now, you and me. Tell me all your shit.” I so need for him to open up to me. Like, I let him open me up and feed on me. Seems only fair. “If we’re gonna be in this together, there needs to be, like, mutual trust.”
He smiles knowingly and takes my arm, running his sharp fingernails over my skin. It makes me shiver. He knew it would. He says, “I, too, want to learn everything there is to know about you.” With that, he plunges his teeth into my shoulder again. As my blood flows from my veins and into his mouth, I feel the weight of my worries slip from me. I feel like it’s not just my blood, but my self, that’s seeping away into him. That numbness is so freaking fantastic. Like nirvana. I almost forget who I am.
Taking his mouth away, he says, “All these months in this building, and never have you brought any friends here. Never have I heard you speak to anyone on the telephone. You are so conveniently alone.”
Shit. All of a sudden I start crying. Shit. I’ve been in Montreal for, like, three months. And I have no friends to show for it. Not that I had any friends in my hometown, either. And my family? Screw them. Shit. I promised myself I would never get weepy about being alone. It’s my choice. I am not sad about it, and I am not one of life’s victims. I’m not. I’m not. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The vampire cradles me while I cry. This is so fucking embarrassing. His teeth tenderly pierce my throat, and he sips a little more of me.
Taking a break, he says, “Earlier, you asked what my name was. If I ever had one, I’ve long since forgotten it. This likeness, though, was called Randolph. But it’s time for me to shed this old skin and evolve.”
Randolph? The sound of the name makes me giggle, and I, like, totally sound high. Like I just smoked a bagful of spliffs or some insane shit like that. I wipe the rest of my tears, touch the little holes on my neck, and continue giggling like an idiot.
His strong hands squeezing my shoulders, Randolph plunges his teeth into my throat again. This time it doesn’t feel so gentle. But that’s okay. Again, he drinks. It’s starting to be hard to remember stuff. Like, fuck, what’s my name? Shit like that.
And it’s starting to not feel so pleasant, all of this. Like my bones are starting to ache. And I can’t see too clearly anymore. My mouth is, like, totally raw and parched. My skin feels dry and cracked, like, all over.
I peer at him, and I, like, totally hallucinate. I could swear I was looking right at myself.
Who the fuck is he, again? Or is it she? What am I doing here? Where am I?
I feel him/her take my clothes off, run his/her fingernails all over my wrinkled skin. He/she bends down and bites into my thigh. And he/she drinks from me. I, like, feel myself flow from my body into his/hers.
~
So, like, I ache all over. I am so fucking old, so tired. But why does it feel so wrong being old? I mean, everyone gets old. That’s life, you know? I just wish I could remember my life. Did I have children? Were my breasts pretty when I was younger? What did I accomplish? No use ... it’s all gone.
Who is this young girl sitting next to me? She does look familiar, but I can’t exactly remember her ... Why is her mouth so bloody? And why are we both naked?
She bends down and – oh! – bites down hard on my belly. It should hurt, but instead it feels like a release. It’s so good. Like floating numbly on a sea of pure pleasure. Letting go of myself. Letting go of everything...
~
So, like, goodbye Randolph, hello Jenny. Jenny is dead. Long live Jenny.
So, like, I just chop up what’s left of the old Jenny and put her in little bags. Then, I put on her clothes. But, really? This is, like, nowhere near slutty enough for what I have in mind.
So I go to my new apartment – Jenny’s apartment – and I, like, totally dress up. Vamp it up, so to speak.
I dye my hair as black as I can get it. Then: a lacy black bustier; black leather gloves; black skirt; black fishnets; black boots that go mid-calf. And there’s my skin. I mean, I’m, like, pretty pale to start with. But I smear white makeup all over my face and then glam it up with white glitter. It makes my skin almost glow in the dark. Last touch: white eyeshadow, plus some black eyeliner and glossy red lipstick. I am, like, stunning. Out of this world. Otherwordly.
On my way out to the downtown clubs, I drop the little bags of leftover Jenny in public garbage cans, but none close to home.
This is fucking great. The nightlife. The music. The bars. The cute boys and girls. The hot men and women. It’s, like, all you can eat, all the time. It’s almost overwhelming. So much to choose from. I let some men and women grope me, some boys and girls kiss me. Until I find just the right one for tonight. The one who will taste just right. Then I’ll let them take me to their bed, and it’ll be my turn to kiss them.
Our Love
That morning, when she roused herself from slumber, we were not touching. I had already been awake for close to an hour; I usually woke up before she did, and, if we weren’t already snuggling in our sleep, I would press my body next to hers, take her hand in mine, smell her intoxicating aromas, and wait for her to return from that mysterious place sleep takes us to.
Most mornings, when she awakened, we would take out our love and, together, play with it, caress it, enjoy it, nurture it. We kept our love on my side of the bed, in the top drawer of my night table, in a small golden box. The box had been my gift to her on our betrothal, but she insisted that I take care of it, that I be the designated caretaker of our love. The casing and clasp were both made of pure gold; inlaid on the top of the box was a pattern composed of finely cut pink-red rubies that evoked a sky full of stars. The inner casing was cushioned with red velvet, but I wanted to pamper our love, so I had made extra bedding for it with yet more red velvet, and there our love nestled when it waited for us to take it out and bask in the pleasures it afforded us.
That morning, she immediately sensed that something was amiss. She pulled the covers tightly around her, as if she needed to shield her nudity from me. She asked, “What’s wrong?” Her eyes strayed beyond me to my bedside table and the open top drawer. There was nothing inside.
Her eyes grew wider. She looked at me as though I were a stranger intruding on her intimacy. She pulled the sheets yet tighter against her.
I closed my eyes for a moment. I was so nervous; it took all my will to keep from trembling. But I had to stay strong. It would not be easy to say what I had to say next. I caught her gaze and finally blurted out, “Yes, our love is gone.”
I could see she was fighting the impulse to flee from our bed, to run away from me. Who was I to her without our love?
But she had always been a woman of exceptional inner strength and resolve; these were among the many qualities that had drawn me to her. She steeled herself and even reached to hold my hand. There was no warmth in her grasp, though, the flesh of her palm affectless against my skin. She said, with as much conviction as anyone can when love is gone, “We’ll find it again. Together. We must simply have misplaced it somewhere in the house. In the aftermath of passion, forgot to put it back after we last took it out.”
I nodded, pretending to agree with her.
~
That day, my appointment calendar was full: mediating a jurisdiction conflict between two departments; welcoming new clients from China; lunch with my opposite number in the public sector; inspecting new facilities in the suburbs; firing three middle managers for three different reasons.
Most days, she stayed at home, composing or recording in her studio. Unless she were touring, in which case she might be absent for weeks. In such situations, we would alternate stewardship of our love: sometimes, she would take it on tour with her; sometimes, I would keep it safe at home. It always made me nervous when she took it along; life on the road was chaotic – what if she were to lose or damage our love? On the other hand, it reassured me when our love was close to her and to her heart. Not that she had ever given me any reason to doubt her fidelity, but flesh will be flesh and our love shielded her from the attentions of other men.
That day, the day she woke to find our love missing, she had no pressing deadlines. As I was getting ready to leave, she said: “I’ll look everywhere. I’ll comb this entire place thoroughly. Every nook and cranny. I’ll find it. Don’t worry. I’ll find our love. And tonight? Tonight we’ll celebrate the return of our love.”
She tried to sound seductive, but without our love her words and body language were forced. The effect was grotesque, although her intentions touched me.
She leaned in for a hug, and I obliged. Her body was limp against mine, a sack of anonymous organic matter.
She repeated, “I’ll find it.” But I knew she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
~
That week, we retraced our steps of the last few days, inquiring if anyone had seen our love. We asked our friends, our neighbours, our families. We placed an ad in the lost and found.
Most weeks, we had a steady routine: dinner out every weeknight, then taking in some kind of show – Indian and an art gallery on Mondays, Italian and a film on Tuesdays, Thai and the symphony on Wednesdays, Ethiopian and a museum on Thursdays, a meal at the jazz bar on Fridays, then weekends would be ours and ours alone: we sequestered ourselves with our love, and the rest of the world might as well have not existed so consumed were we with each other and with our love. Despite her passionate and steadfast devotion, I had known from the start that it was inevitable she would one day leave me. Such were the rhythms of life and romance. It was imperative that I protect our love – the most profound love I had ever encountered – from her eventual departure.
That week, the quest for our love overwhelmed our lives.
By the end of that week, our love becoming an ever dimmer memory, she was no longer sharing our bed. When she was at home, she rarely stepped outside her studio, rarely acknowledged my presence.
One late afternoon, I heard her sobbing, the door to her studio ajar. I was tempted then to falter, to succumb to her distress, to confess. To end this charade. But that would only imperil our love. I had to remain resolute, regardless of whatever pain or anguish she or I might experience.
Only our love mattered.
~
That year, I took a sabbatical. We travelled across the world. In search of our love. To cities we’d visited before – Paris, Barcelona, Casablanca, Rome, Venice, Trieste, Budapest, Vienna, Frankfurt, Amsterdam, Copenhagen – and, when that proved fruitless, to countless cities in which we had never set foot. But our love was nowhere to be found.
Most years, we travelled to one city and stayed there for several weeks, a temporary home away from home. We loved discovering new places but were not fond of the stress and irritations of travelling. This way, we minimized the discomfort and maximized the stimulating experience of being somewhere new.
That year, if felt as if we spent more time waiting in airports and travelling in aeroplanes than we did in our intended destinations.
In Paris, we booked a room together, but, without our love to unite us, such proximity proved unbearable. From then on, our accommodations grew farther apart: first, a two-bedroom suite in Barcelona and again in Casablanca; then, as of Rome, separate rooms. By the time we hit Asia, we rarely stayed in the same hotel.
Neither did we explore together. I imagine that, as she told me, she spent her time in the cities of the world seeking our love. She was not the deceitful kind, and despite our changed circumstances I had no cause to mistrust her honesty.
As far as she knew, I, too, was searching for our love. That was what I told her. But I knew it would be a futile exercise. Thus, I lied. I was not as good a person as she was. I had never been, might never be. Only our love made me seem better than I truly was. In time, perhaps our love would truly make me a better man. But for now I had to make do without our love, as much as I yearned for it. What if some overeager customs official searched my luggage and found our love? No – I did not want to risk discovery and put our love in jeopardy.
While she quested, I, bereft of our love, diverted myself in the brothels of Barcelona, in the private apartments of Italian courtesans, in the erotic massage parlours of Budapest, in the FKK clubs of Frankfurt, in the sex hotels of Singapore, in the termas of Rio de Janeiro...
Flesh will be flesh.
~
That night, long after our return from that futile journey around the world, long after she had given up hope of ever locating our love, I was careless.
Most nights, I would wait until I was certain she had left (she was away from home with increasing frequency) or had gone to sleep. I would take out our love from its hiding place and taste it, play with it, caress it, enjoy it, nurture it. Without fail, our love would bring me to orgasm, and there were no sweeter orgasms than those our love granted me. There were no sweeter moments than those precious minutes of serene bliss following those climaxes, when I surrendered myself to the warmth and closeness of our love with blind, unthinking, animalistic trust.
That night, I was certain I had heard her leave. I built a fire. In the warm flickering glow of the fireplace, I lay naked on a blanket with our love. I was feverishly aroused – hard and wet, sweating and trembling with anticipation.
“How long?”
I heard her voice before fully registering her presence.
“How long have you been keeping our love from me? Was it from the very start?”
The answer must have been written on my face.
“So – our love was never lost. You hid it. You hid it from me. Why?”
There were tears on her cheeks and unforgiving fury in her gaze. It had been a long time since she had tasted our love.
“Talk to me! Tell me!”
But I had no words for her. I owed her no explanation. I no longer cared what she thought or felt. I had long ago accepted that our marriage could never be eternal. But our love ... Our love could be everlasting. Only our love mattered – not our marriage. And so I set out to protect our love from our marriage and its unavoidable disintegration.
She advanced toward me; her body radiated violence. Naked, on the floor, I curled into a ball, shielding our love from her potential brutality.
She growled at us. “You’re pathetic. I should take our lo— I should take
that thing
from you and destroy it.”
Her fists were tightly coiled, ready to strike at us.
“
That thing
was ever only a lie. I see that now.
That thing
disgusts me. I don’t ever want to touch it again.” The violence seeped out of her. She said, “I’ll go now. Just stay there – you stay here with
that thing
. That filthy thing. I’ll pack essentials for now, but I’ll move everything out tomorrow. Make sure you and
that thing
are out of the house for the whole day, and then I’ll be gone forever. But for tonight ... don’t budge until I leave. You’ll know when; I’ll slam the door on my way out.” She laughed, injecting palpable disdain into her mirth.
Within a few minutes, I heard the outside door open and slam shut.
Yet, I lay still for a long time. I kept drifting in and out of sleep. Eventually, our love sheltered within the palms of my hands, I sat up and shivered. The room was cold; the fire had mostly died out, with only a scattering of embers struggling to maintain a faint orange glow.
The shivering intensified, fuelled not only by the cold but also by a maelstrom of unexpected, unwelcome emotions. My first impulse was to turn to our love; it would – as it had always done – restore me, bring me to serenity. But I was afraid to pry open my clasped hands. The thought of looking directly at our love was, at that precise moment, odious, repellent.
Driven by an urge I could not control, I hurled our love onto the dying embers. Immediately, the fireplace erupted into a conflagration the intensity of which I had never beheld. The wild flames burned with colours of subtle, complex, ever-changing shades, releasing a rich blend of intoxicating aromas, redolent of sex and brine and ripe fruit.
Heedless of the passage of time, I sat contemplating the fire as it consumed our love. It burned long, bright, and deep.
