Then I see the card that brings me back again to that recent past, when I was enjoying my time in South Beach like I always do during the winter. The ID card in my hand indicated that Frederick was a hotel front desk assistant manager. It turns out that he was studying for his master’s in hospitality management, just like another man I was introduced to years before by my gifted young painter, Lucy—my lil’ Monet.
I haven’t stopped thinking about her since I got back here in the city. I have tried to erase her from my thoughts. Obviously, I haven’t been successful at it, and I doubt I ever will be. She was truly special, and her fate was unnecessary. However, I won’t go on like this. First, I need to go back to the beginning, or to the middle of everything. Whichever the case may be, the facts are as follows: It was the summer of ’93, the place was Miami, and I was the Gypsy that I have always been.
The Not-So-Recent Past
July 1993
Miami
The sun had just set, and I was hungry and thirsty again, and happy to be out on the streets of Miami. Long gone were the insane ’80s, replaced by the early ’90s. It was a different time, but the heat was still the same. The airwaves were filled with salsa music from the Caribbean and South America, grunge rock, and Guns N’ Roses. It was my first time in town since the ’70s; and after a decade and a half of absence, I was impressed by all the changes that had taken place, mostly in the diversity of its habitants. I couldn’t get enough of their sultry spice, their music, and their flavor all mixed up with the North American culture.
The Spaniard in me was delighted in the proximity of all this. It almost made me swear that I would find a good place of my own so I could always come and visit, but I needed a good-enough reason to do so.
The Caribbean blood I savored in those nights was not different from any other type; but the scent, the fragile smell of salt and spice in my victims’ skin and in their tears was enough to turn me into an addict.
Miami was growing from being a swamp filled with the oldest population from all over the States into a cultural and entertainment destination. May all the gods that men have created bless all that cocaine money! All that investment capital was turning what was considered at one time a worthless piece of land into an oasis. Just like what the Mafia money had done for Vegas back in the ’50s.
There we were, the city and I. She was the sun capital of the world and me the lord of the night. Yin and yang, a perfect balance.
Always on the move, I avoided the big hotels; I also avoided buying properties in exclusive places. However, I was tempted to go for a top-floor unit in one of the new condominiums over on Collins Avenue. I loved the view from the balcony; I could see the casual cruise liner in the horizon, sailing alone in the middle of the black ocean, flashing its dim lights as if they were a congregation of artificial stars. I love cruises. There was a time when I went on one every other year—until the high percentage of missing passengers started to draw too much attention and made me reconsider my habits. Now having a place in such a great location was more than convenient, because it meant I would just jump on a ship, do my hunting, and the ocean would take care of the rest. That was my version of a drive-through.
Soon I was facing the inescapable fact that I had to move on, and it was on such a night, in such moment when I found my reason to stay. I was selecting my kill of the evening, scanning people’s thoughts, searching through memories and mental images, looking for the one who would fire me up, the one who was dirty, weak and, guilty enough to motivate my inner animal, the true killer in me.
Killing with vice is the best.
Suddenly, my search was interrupted when I picked the thoughts of a young woman. I was on top of a nearby building on Ocean Drive when I felt her hunger, her despair, and her sadness.
My eyes scanned the beach for the source of such essence, and there she was: She had her back to me; she was talking to a couple, a fat woman and a short lanky man. I intensified my senses to pick up their conversation, and I heard the couple tell her that they would not pay the $15 fee for the pencil portrait she had just drawn of them. They were claiming that they thought it was for free, that they didn’t hear her telling them anything about a fee.
I looked at the fat woman talking to the young girl and smiled to myself. I knew she had heard the girl say something about a fee, only to change her mind halfway through the portrait; and now she was making excuses. I smiled to myself, knowing that I had just found my kill, and she was a juicy one.
I watched the couple return the portrait and then walk away. I was about to follow them, but I couldn’t stop looking at the girl. She was exhausted and mad. I saw her expression, and there was fire in her eyes. Anger, pure and silent—the type of anger I could relate to.
In moments, I was standing next to her as she was putting away her tools, stuffing them into a long black nylon bag. It was then when she noticed my presence.
“I’m done for the night,” she said without even turning to face me.
I could hear her Southern accent. Like most of Miami, she was not from there. I did not move; I stood there in silence, my face half turned toward the beach.
“That’s a shame,” I said, “because I truly love pencil portraits.”
This is true.
“I have been waiting for you to finish with that other couple, so I could come and ask you to do mine,” I added.
She turned and looked at me as I stared out at the distant ocean. I slowly turned to face her. Her dirty blonde hair fell over her forehead, giving her a boyish aura; she looked very fresh and young. Her brown eyes move quickly, sizing me up, like women do. I gave her my best smile, fangs and all. She noticed and smiled back at me. In one quick resolution, she unpacked her tools and prepared to do my portrait.
I stood there and chatted with this young creature, being casual as I watched her, studying her. I was delighted with her, admiring her tenacity as she pressed the pencil in a fluid motion against a clean sheet of paper, depicting my features, not faithfully but according to her own interpretation, like true artists do. We talked about the weather, about music and places I could visit while in town. Afterward, when she gave me the finished portrait and I saw how she had gracefully reproduced my menacing smile, I made up my mind: I would kill her.
I gave her a hundred-dollar bill. Her sad eyes met mine, telling me she didn’t have enough change to break it. I told her to keep it for the overtime, but she refused with such dignity that I couldn’t help but smile. No, I thought, I won’t kill her just yet. Instead, I realized that I wanted to know this girl. I needed time to figure out what was so appealing about her.
I stood nearby as she packed her tools; I was still admiring the pencil portrait. I felt her despair, read her thoughts. I learned that she was alone in the city, and she was struggling badly. I turned toward her.
“I’ll be opening a small galleria in a few months. I could definitely use the help of someone as talented as you,” I said casually.
She stood up and looked at me with interest.
“It will take me a couple of weeks to find the right place, and maybe a couple of months to get the permits, and then more time to find a good collection to showcase, but if you are interested in a steady job in the field, I may have one for you,” I offered.
I had no idea how to go about making good on that promise, but it was the best I could offer.
She was quiet for a moment.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
I gave her my card. She took it, read the information, and looked back at me.
I contemplated the pencil portrait again just to show it back at her. “I’m afraid this one will go to my private collection, though,” I said in a casual manner.
She smiled, looking straight into my Gypsy eyes; and I found myself smiling back at her.
My lil’ Monet, I miss you.
I learned to love her in a very special way. I truly loved her—not her looks or her talent, not the possibility of taking her,
but her force, her energy and desire to be great. In all our time together, I always knew how far and how remarkable she could become. I wanted to be a part of that, to be a witness to the birth of a great artist—and that’s what she ultimately was.
Lucy was an only child, born and raised in the South. She was very family oriented and refreshingly honest in her ways. It is not very often that someone like me finds hope in the people he meets, but I did with her. I used to struggle at times when weak and thirsty next to her; but at no risk of being hypocritical, I can honestly say I would have rather fed on rats before I would even consider harming her in any way.
I also knew that her ambition, with the guidance of someone like me, would find the structure and the solid base it needed to go as far as possible. She was smart enough to see that and too naive to have second thoughts.
I will admit that our little arrangement was comfortable. My kind is incapable of producing an offspring and just like with my stepson, Jason, Lucy became the subject of my attention, like a gifted daughter or a little sister.
Her biggest tragedy lay in her lack of confidence. She was the type of creature who could never make up her mind. She wanted to be known and famous but couldn’t follow through. Her attention was divided among too many things—bright, beautiful, and shiny things. On the other hand, after having lived for so long, I knew better; and after a while, I found myself assuming the role of a father figure.
The human frailty never ceases to amaze me.
It is easy to desire the world, but making the leap to actually have it is another thing. To have the world, you need to know yourself and have the capacity to believe. Then dreams stop being dreams and become goals, made even more real with plans, strategies, sacrifices, and fees. Above everything else, you need to have a well-centered heart to carry on.
Lucy had a golden heart. Her capacity for caring was sometimes overwhelming; and at times, it scared the hell out of me, because I know very well what this world does to those who dare to care too much.
I spent every winter and the first weeks of spring with her before returning to the East Coast. I did open a small galleria near the beach, and she worked for me. I found an old house; and after all the redecoration, it became the perfect place to exhibit some of the most amazing private collections in that part of the world, as well as the perfect house for my lil’ Monet. I was careful enough to bring up the idea of moving in such a way that it sounded more like it was hers.
Months later, after some phone calls and interviews, she got into one of the most prestigious art schools in town. I still remember the beaming expression on her face when she told me. She looked like a child who was about to start dancing out of pure happiness.
*******
December 2001
Miami
I watched Lucy blossom year after year. She made the leap from young girl to ambitious woman, and the ’90s came and went. Then came the night right around December 2001.
The North American world was trying to show its best face during the first holidays post-9/11. I was in the city when it happened but didn’t realize the magnitude of the event until almost eight hours afterward. Because the attacks of September 11 happened during the morning hours, neither Jason nor I knew anything about it until we woke up. That night, Jason and I stayed in, like most of the world, glued to the TV set.
For almost a decade, I had been between cities. During the summers, I was in New York with Jason; and just before the winter rolled in, I would go and stay with Lucy in South Beach.
Having not seen her for the most part of the year, I went back one night in December 2001. I took a night flight from JFK International to Miami. I heard and read about the new security measures implemented by the government for all domestic and international flights, but I wasn’t ready for what lay ahead. That night, I had no luggage; and, as always when indoors and artificial lighting is strong, I was wearing shades. My appearance has always been a dead giveaway that I’m not the typical North American–looking man. Not that I’m pretending to be, but since 9/11, in the land of the free and home of the brave, not looking American enough was asking for trouble. My case was even worse, because those who did not know could easily assume that I could be Middle Eastern. My Indian-Gypsy genes are responsible for that. I have also been mistaken for a Latino, and even a Hindu; but that’s another story. The fact is that I had the security checkpoint experience from hell. I was asked to step aside and go through a detailed TSA security process that tested my patience. I cursed the moment I decided to take a plane to Miami, and I blamed myself during all those five wasted hours of my night before I was allowed to board the plane.
It was not a surprise visit. Lucy and I had been talking about it for weeks, and I insisted on her not coming to pick me up. I like Miami during the holidays. Granted, it does not have New York’s epic postcard setting, but you can’t beat the fact that a seventy-eight-degree weather during winter is hard to find anywhere in the mainland. I’m not a fan of extreme cold weather, not only because of the inconvenience of the weather itself, but also because most people stay in under those conditions, unnecessarily complicating my hunting habits. Instead, the nights in Miami are pleasant, and the people love to go out and party. So do I.
When I arrived at the beach house, I found, to my surprise, that my lil’ Monet was not alone. That night, she introduced her new boyfriend to me. His name was Stephen. He was very tall, had a very nice suntan, had the bluest blue eyes ever, and had short dark brown hair. A killer smile completed the irresistible package.
I’m tall. Being European, I’m average at 6'2." Consequently, it is not common for me to look up at others; but with Stephen, there was no choice. At the time we met, he was a college student finishing his master’s, a basketball aficionado, had a wonderfully unmistakable British accent, and was full of the characteristic freedom of the young. From the moment I saw him and experienced his natural charm, I knew he would be the one who would break Lucy’s heart.
You see, I haven’t mentioned this, but Lucy, besides all her great qualities, was an impressive beautiful woman with an athletic body and an openness that made her the perfect social butterfly. Throughout the years, I witnessed how men fell for her, and more than one cried for her. I had also watched, with amusement, how she enjoyed the attention but never gave too much of herself. She was always one step ahead of real love.
This time, it was different. Just a quick glimpse of her eyes, the way she looked at him while we talked, told me the truth.
“I really like that he wants to make it by himself,” she said to me, never taking her lovely eyes off him.
I took a quick glance at them and saw her place her right hand on his left thigh, very close to his sex. The gesture was brief, natural, and without any other motive but to express closeness, the type only lovers can express. He looked into her eyes and rewarded her with one of his perfect smiles.
Something was wrong; something inside of me was not right. I began to feel strongly about something that should have been inconsequential in the first place. I realized, to my surprise, that I was not interested in her friendship.
I’m a bad friend. I’m bad.
I felt pure anger, intense and murderous.
Then it hit me: I was jealous. I was merely pretending to care while they talked animatedly. I discovered my true feelings for Lucy. Feelings that perhaps had been brewing inside me for years but never surfaced until then. Or perhaps they had at certain times, but I always pushed them, unintentionally, to the back of my mind. Until now.
Why? I asked myself.
The answer was simple. None of her past relationships had felt as real as this one. I was jealous of that. I wanted that bliss for myself. That love long lost.
My thoughts went back to Kamille.
But then experience kicked in, and my own selfishness took a backseat when I realized my lil’ Monet was under a lust spell that I knew would lead to a dreadful emotional attachment.
If I coul
d get a dime for each time I’ve seen this coming
Stephen, on the other hand, never knew what he had. From the moment I met him until the very end, he never knew what he wanted. Being strikingly handsome fueled his dreams of becoming famous and traveling the world, maybe becoming a male model, or perhaps an actor. I believe that he had what it took to do all that, but he also knew he lacked the most important thing in the equation, which was exactly what Lucy had to spare—a well-centered heart. One thing he had to his advantage, though, was the fact that he, indeed, was in the right city.
I’ve called it Vampire City before, and that’s what Miami really is. Just like any other big metropolis, like Extreme City New York or Lost Angeles, Miami has the very best and worst of what the human fiber can offer; but unlike the other two, you will hardly find so much shallowness anywhere else.
Just like anywhere else, Miami has a way, a social structure unto itself that you have to understand in order to exceed successfully in everything she had to offer. An attitude of monkey see, monkey do; a culture of first impressions first, a nonsense of it’s not who you are but what you have.
Eternal Darkness, Blood King Page 2