by Dacre Stoker
CHAPTER XIV.
The distant bell from the Westertoren rang out a new hour. It chimed every fifteen minutes. The old man no longer noticed it each time it rang, since it now rang so often. Lately, though, the bell had seemed to grow louder, as if it were taunting him, counting down the minutes to the end of his life. He spent most days sitting in his apartment on Haar lemmer Houttuinen looking out of his third-story window toward the Prinsengracht Canal, among his many books. His only connection to the outside world was the stack of newspapers that were delivered at the end of each week at the same time as his groceries.
The old man put on his spectacles and picked up the Times. Some Frenchman had set a new record in aviation. The old man shook his head. Man had no business flying. Even Greek mythology offered a warning in the story of Icarus, who flew too close to the sun. The moral of that story still held true to this day: Pride comes before a fall. This new industrial age had betrayed man’s arrogance. The old man turned the paper over and saw the back listing for the society pages. Normally, he did not bother with the goings-on of the upper classes, but a headline caught his eye: “FORMER HEAD OF WHITBY ASYLUM DEAD IN PARIS.”
The old man’s hand trembled as his wrinkled finger followed the text. His heart beat rapidly, his suspicions confirmed, as he read the name of the victim: Dr. Jack Seward.
There were very few details surrounding his death, some accident with a carriage. What had Jack been doing in Paris? The old man reread the date. Jack had died almost a week ago. It had taken that long for the newspaper to reach him. Damn! He rifled through the other newspapers, finding the recent editions of Le Temps, and in one of these a companion article written the day after Jack ’s death. He read it as best as he could, though he had forgotten most of his French. It didn’t really matter, for there were only minor new details to be found. A thick fog, the driver of the carriage failed to stop, and Jack, dead in front of the Théâtre de l’Odéon. A tragic accident.
The old man was about to shut the paper when the article caught his attention once more. A witness was quoted as saying he had seen two women climb into the carriage as it fled the scene, but that the police believed the witness was mistaken when he claimed that the carriage had been driverless.
It might have seemed an insignificant detail to the French authorities, but to the old man, it was a beacon of danger. He had always believed there were no such things as accidents.
“Hij leeft . . . He lives,” he whispered to himself, his heart now racing in fear. He felt a sharp pain in his jaw, as if being impaled by a hot knife.
Within seconds, his chest tightened. The old man reached into his pocket for his brass pillbox. His left arm went numb. His fingers shook as he struggled one-handed to unhinge the tiny clasp. The Reaper squeezed tighter, causing him to drop the tablets onto the rug. The old man opened his mouth to scream in agony, but only a whimper emerged from his dry lips. He fell out of his chair, onto the floor. If he died here, his body would not be discovered until the delivery boy returned the next week. He would lie rotting, alone and forgotten. The old man grabbed a single nitroglycerine pill, placed it under his tongue, and waited for the tablet to take effect. The warm glow from the fire flickered, casting an eerie light into the glass eyes of the taxidermied birds and animals displayed about the room. Their dead stares taunted him.
In a few minutes, he felt warm blood coursing through his limbs again. Death loosened its grip. His rheumy eyes glanced back to the newspaper. The old man knew that death from something as mundane as a heart attack would not be his fate. There was a reason God had kept him alive. With all the strength he could muster, he pulled himself back up into his chair and rose with purpose.
CHAPTER XV.
Quincey had no memory of his trip from London to Harbor station in Dover Priory, or of waiting for the ferry to take him to Calais. For the entire twenty-four-hour journey, his nose was stuck in Bram Stoker’s novel. He continued turning pages traveling from Calais-Fréthun station on the Chemin de Fer du Nord to the Gare du Nord in Paris.
He found Stoker’s combination of a first-person narrative, journal entries, and letter correspondence unique, and despite the fact that a walking dead monster was completely unrealistic, he found himself intrigued by the character of Dracula, a creation full of contradictions: a tragic figure, a symbol of pure evil, the dark hunter who then becomes the hunted. But seeing his mother and father featured as the main characters was quite surreal. Even his home in Exeter and how his father had inherited the Hawkins law firm were mentioned. He found it offensive to read Stoker’s suggestion that his mother would have been less than pure in her dealings with the vampire Dracula. But as Quincey read on, his anger subsided. In the end, Stoker had restored his mother’s virtue by having her help the brave band of heroes hunt down and destroy Dracula. Funny, he had never thought of his father as much of a hero. But there had to be a reason that Stoker chose his parents as models for the lead characters in his novel, and he hoped Stoker would be more receptive to questions next time he met him.
Quincey became excited at the prospect of using this stage adaptation of Dracula not only as an opportunity to prove to himself that he could succeed in the theatrical business and as an actor, but also to prove his worth to Stoker as a member of the Lyceum Theatre Company.
“Welcome, Monsieur Harker!” Antoine, the manager of the Théâtre de l’Odéon, was waiting for Quincey when he arrived shortly after four o’clock. Quincey was taken aback by the warm reception, a far cry from the welcome he’d received only a week ago.
Antoine shook his hand. “How was your voyage to London?”
“Quite eventful,” Quincey replied. “Is Monsieur Basarab here?”
“Non, I’m afraid none of the actors has arrived yet. Call time is not for another two hours.”
Quincey had suspected as much. He took Dracula out of his satchel, along with a sealed envelope, which he placed inside the book’s front cover. “Could you see that Mr. Basarab receives this for me?”
“I shall hand it to him personally.”
After watching Antoine disappear into the theatre, Quincey set off to find a room for the night in the Latin Quarter. Quincey yawned as he dragged his feet along the cobbled street. He had not slept since leaving London and hoped to return to the theatre after the show, but he knew that the moment his head made contact with a pillow, he would be dead to the world.
He dreamed that night of a future when his name would appear on the boards beside Basarab’s, and awoke the next morning feeling refreshed, and itching to know what Basarab thought of the letter and the book itself. Everything hinged on his reaction. Quincey could hardly wait to go to the theatre in the evening and meet his fate head-on. Dressing quickly, he went out in search of breakfast and passed the theatre. He knew Basarab would not be there yet, but he felt the need to stop and dream once again.
Over the next few hours, Quincey strolled through the streets of Paris, his mind rolling through Stoker’s novel over and over again. He wondered if Stoker was a genius at creating the character, or if his depiction of Dracula was actually based on someone. Stoker had written that Dracula was a Romanian noble. It occurred to Quincey that if a real Dracula had ever existed, Basarab might be familiar with his history. A good producer would acquaint himself as best he could with the historical Dracula in order to impress his potential star. With that thought, Quincey took himself to boulevard du Montparnasse, where a number of good bookshops were to be found along the stretch near the university.
Two hours and three bookshops later, and he had not found a single copy of Stoker’s Dracula. It could be that it had not been well received. Quincey was beginning to fear that he had backed the wrong horse. He came to a fourth bookshop, known for having titles from all over the world. There, Quincey was surprised to find two books about Dracula, both translated from German. The smaller of the two was actually a long poem entitled The Story of a Bloodthirsty Madman Called Dracula of Wallachia. The other, larger bo
ok was The Frightening and Truly Extraordinary Story of a Wicked Blood-Drinking Tyrant Called Prince Dracula.
Could the Germans make their titles any longer?
Quincey’s speculations about Dracula’s origins were correct; Stoker’s vampire, Count Dracula, had links to a real historical personage. Although he was trying to be frugal with his money, Quincey purchased the books for character research. He would have to save money by forgoing some meals, but it was a necessary sacrifice. He wanted to know all he could about this mysterious figure.
Quincey stopped at the office of Compagnie Française des Câbles Télé graphiques, on the boulevard Saint-Germaine, to send a telegram telling Hamilton Deane of his wondrous discovery at the bookstore. He spent most of the day at his favorite carved-stone bench, near the man-made pond in the Luxembourg Gardens, reading the historical accounts of Prince Dracula. He became so engrossed in the brutal accounts of the diabolical prince that he did not realize the sun was setting until he could barely read the type on the page. Almost eight o’clock! He dashed off northward to the theatre and there quickly sought out Antoine.
“Monsieur Harker, Basarab was expecting you to come by tonight. He asked that I give you a complimentary ticket to view the show.”
Quincey was ecstatic to be able to see this grand production of Richard III a second time, only a week later. This time, while he watched Basarab as the king, he could see how easily he could play Dracula. The characters were similar: proud warriors, cunning, ambitious, cruel, and charming at the same time. He could not help but imagine what it would have been like to be alive in the fifteenth century and come face-to-face with the brutal Dracula himself. The thought gave him shudders. Dracula was a man who could impale forty thousand people. Quincey could not imagine the unspeakable pain Dracula’s poor victims must have suffered. Richard III’s crimes seemed to pale in comparison. Prince Dracula must have been a sadistic madman like Jack the Ripper. But at least Jack had been “kind” enough to slit his victims’ throats so that they would be dead before he tore them to pieces.
After the show, Quincey made his way backstage. There was a great deal of activity as crew members packed away the sets. Basarab’s production company was in Paris for only one week, hence the exorbitant ticket price. The timing could prove fortuitous. Quincey found his way to Basarab’s dressing room, drew a breath, and knocked.
“Mr. Basarab?”
From inside: “Enter.”
Quincey found Basarab garbed in a black-and-red satin smoking jacket, clipping articles about himself from a stack of newspapers and carefully placing them in a scrapbook.
“I see you found your reviews.”
Basarab smiled. “Always remember, Mr. Harker, shame is placed on arrogance by those who lack talent.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quincey became aware of the strong scent of food on the table where the tea set had been the previous week. Skipping meals was proving more difficult than he’d imagined. He hoped Basarab couldn’t hear his stomach rumbling.
After pasting in a clipping, Basarab reached behind his wooden makeup case and held up the copy of Dracula.
“I’ve read the book that you left for me.”
Quincey was amazed that he could have read it so quickly. “What did you think?”
“A rather odd title.”
“I’ve done some research,” Quincey said, proudly pulling the German books from his satchel. “The title makes sense when you know there actually was a fifteenth-century Romanian prince named Vlad Dracula. He was quite the villain.”
“I would hardly refer to him as a villain,” Basarab said. “He was the father of my nation.”
Quincey smiled to himself. The money he’d invested in the bookstore, instead of in food, was about to pay dividends. Basarab crossed the room and slipped behind the changing screen adjacent to his wardrobe trunk. As if reading Quincey’s mind, he gestured to the spread of food and said, “Please, enjoy.”
“Thank you.” Quincey tried not to sound too eager. Putting his embarrassment aside, he sat down. As Basarab removed his smoking jacket, Quincey took a bite out of a delicious-looking roast chicken. It was the best he had ever tasted.
“This is wonderful. What is it?”
Without warning, the strong spice hit and Quincey’s mouth began to burn. He coughed, scrambling for a glass of water to quench the flames.
“No,” Basarab said, “water will only serve to fuel the spice. Eat some rice.”
Quincey obeyed and was surprised how quickly the rice seemed to counter the spicy chicken’s heat. After a moment, Quincey tried again, taking a bite of chicken and rice at the same time.
“It is called paprika hendl, a popular dish in my homeland.”
“Very good, actually,” Quincey said between mouthfuls. “Might I guess that you will be taking some time off now that the Paris leg of your tour is complete? Will you be returning to Romania?”
“I have not decided what my next course of action will be. I have a standing offer to bring the production to a theatre in Madrid. As of yet, I have not accepted.”
Quincey strained not to smile. He could not believe his good fortune.
“So Dracula is considered the father of your nation? From what I’ve read, he murdered thousands, and was known to drink their blood.”
“An ancient pagan ritual. It is said that those who drink the blood of their enemies consume their power.”
“And then there is the translation of his name,” Quincey said. He riffled through the pages to find the passage and read it to Basarab. “ ‘ Son of the Devil.’ ”
“The true translation of Dracula’s name is ‘Son of the Dragon.’ His father was a knight in the Catholic Order of the Dragon, sworn to protect Christendom from the Muslims. The symbol for the Devil in Christian Orthodox culture is a dragon. Hence the confusion.”
Basarab struggled with his ascot in front of the mirror. Quincey knew how to tie them; he’d seen his mother helping his father. Without thinking, he crossed the room and helped Basarab adjust his tie.
“I suppose, as in all things, the truth is relative to one’s point of view. All the same, this fellow Dracula is quite an interesting character, wouldn’t you say?”
It seemed as if an eternity passed as Basarab looked at him, considering his next words. “Ah, now we come to it. You want me to play Dracula for the stage. And you would, no doubt, play your father, Jonathan Harker?”
“He always did want me to follow in his footsteps.”
Basarab chuckled, and gently placed a hand on Quincey’s shoulder. “I’m quite impressed by your ambition, young Quincey. From hopeful apprentice to producer and star inside a week. A man to be reckoned with.”
“You read my letter? You’ll come to England?”
Basarab grabbed his hat, gloves, and walking stick. Quincey cursed himself for being too eager. The lack of immediate response from Basarab was more than he could bear.
The great actor turned to him. “I make no promises. I prefer to play English characters. They have a knack for dying well. I have made my career superbly playing well-died Englishmen.”
Quincey and Basarab shared another laugh. All the tension seemed to leave the room. Quincey couldn’t help but think that this was what he had always wished he could do with his own father. “I am going to watch some late-night performances at Les Folies Bergère,” Basarab said. “Would you care to join me?”
A good sign! Quincey had often wanted to visit this infamous Parisian music hall, known for its exotic performances. He agreed readily.
“We shall have a few drinks and discuss this proposition of yours,” Basarab said.
It took immense self-restraint for Quincey not to jump for joy.
They walked northward toward the 18th arrondissement of Paris. Basarab questioned him about the production of Dracula, the theatre, timing, and even payment. Quincey finally felt comfortable enough to ask a question of his own.
“There is one thing I was wondering
about. My books make frequent reference to what I believe is a Romanian word. Dracula is sometimes referred to as tepes. Would you know what it means?”
Basarab spun toward Quincey with a sudden, icy look of anger, and stabbed him in the chest with his walking stick to emphasize his point. “It is a vile word used by Dracula’s political enemies to discredit him. Never speak it again!”
After a few more steps, Basarab stopped and turned back. Thankfully, the anger had washed away, and Basarab was his charming self once again, as if he had realized he had been too harsh with the naïve young man. In a tone of apology, he said, “Tepes means ‘impaler.’ ”
CHAPTER XVI.
The Fleet Street Dragon was watching him. From Jonathan’s office window, he could see it sitting on the street in the middle of Temple Bar, taunting him, judging him. The Temple Bar had once had a stone archway, which marked where Fleet Street turned into the Strand. Due to its vicinity to the Temple, a complex once owned by the Knights Templar, it was now where the guilds of solicitors organized into an area that was known as “Legal London.” During the eighteenth century, the heads of traitors on iron spikes had been displayed in Temple Bar protruding from the top of the stone archway. That archway had been removed in 1878. Two years later, the Temple Bar Monument had been erected in its place, a forty-foot-tall pedestal surmounted by a black dragon, which stood in the middle of Fleet Street. The Fleet Street Dragon. Of the many solicitors’ offices in the vicinity, among them was Hawkins & Harker.
Jack Seward’s death had sobered Jonathan enough that morning to send him back to London. He spent a couple of days at the office trying to organize the necessary paperwork regarding Jack ’s final wishes. It was no easy task. Jonathan’s once-prosperous law firm with a dozen employees had slowly disintegrated to the point at which Jonathan could no longer afford to keep on anyone but himself. He would not even have been able to maintain an office on Fleet Street had Peter Hawkins not purchased the building back in the 1870s. It was ironic that the competing law firms renting space on other floors now provided the only reliable cash flow to Jonathan’s business. To help him survive the daunting task of organizing Jack ’s scattered life, Jonathan took frequent breaks at Mooney & Son’s public house a little east on Fleet Street.