The Vampires

by John Rechy

  “My father likes interesting people,” Mark said. Now he stood up. The bronze body. He had a stunning beauty that might yet rival his father’s. He moved behind her. “You have beautiful red hair,” he said. “Was my father a good lover?” he asked her abruptly.

  Again, the jagged, sharp edge of fear; and again a suspicion of rivalry between father and son. She did not answer. She was aware of his body next to hers. Again. Innocent? Taunting her?

  He moved away, again severing the contact abruptly.

  Joja felt as if she had fallen from a great elevation into a pit of anger. Anger at this boy! Yes, a boy! she told herself. . . . Grabbing for release, any release, she laughed loudly.

  Mark’s face blackened with such intense fury that her laughter stopped as if severed by a cold knife—and she turned away from his rage.

  The next words came at her like a fusillade of bullets, the voice so much like Richard’s that, turning, she expected to see him. But Mark had spoken them. Darkly. Ominously. He said: “One of the guests is a murderer.”

  (“I killed her!’’ The child in her arms. . . .) Through the glass wall, Joja saw the waiting stage.

  7

  Their dark eyes were intense. Perhaps savage. Yet the rest of their faces expressed only wonder: Valerie and Paul returned to the room with the draped props on the waiting stage: watching, fascinated, the bare shadows of a world they had never even glimpsed before. Spectators, yet, now, potential players: A foreign world to be exhibited to them on that stage?

  Indeed, theirs had been an enclosed world, of private tutors—nuns and priests: filtering agents allowing only parts of the vast world to seep in: A pantomime of living, Paul thought suddenly; he and his sister involved in a mute pavan while those carefully selected to witness it applauded silently: a rarefied life made possible by an invisible source of wealth. Even Daniel, their father, they saw only periodically; and then it was as if he were apprising himself of their . . . “progress.” That thought came with sudden retrospective clarity to Valerie. Had they lived for eighteen sheltered years for some furious, stark, sudden revelation?

  The stage stared back at them. It was as if from the moment of their arrival they had existed under the intense scrutiny of invisible eyes. Or was it since before their arrival? Acting out the preparation of a fateful ceremony still to be performed? It seemed suddenly to Valerie that they had been waiting to meet Richard all their lives.

  “Paul, let’s leave,” she said.

  “We haven’t seen Richard.”

  “I know,” she said quietly.

  “What do you think this is?” Paul asked his sister. His face still serene, his eyes, devouring everything, blazed like gems.

  “A throne,” said Valerie, looking at the black-draped prop on the stage. “Or a bed. . . . A confessional booth.”

  “Or an altar,” Paul said. “And this?”

  Valerie stood before it—a tall, straight, black-draped object.

  Paul’s arm was on her shoulder.

  She spun around, away from the upright prop. “Don’t uncover it!” she protested.

  Paul had stripped the black draping.

  Valerie winced as if he were ripping away a secret part of herself.

  “It’s— . . . It’s a wooden stake,” Paul said incredulously. “No—it’s a sheath—for a long knife— . . .” He stood eyeing the strange, long weapon buried into a wooden stakelike scabbard mounted on a small dais. It would be sharp and deadly. Flesh would melt like wax at its touch.

  Urgently, Valerie covered the knife again with the black drape.

  “I knew your mother,” Tarah said to them. She had stood silently, unnoticed, observing them from the door. (She remembered: Murder.) Her eyes sought Paul’s. (She remembered: “I’ll be gone for the weekend.” “Where do you go?” “I’ll be back Sunday night.” Then: Bodies.)

  Valerie turned eagerly toward the woman. “Was she ever here?” she asked, to piece the shadow of an intimate stranger, her mother.

  “Yes,” said Tarah.

  “She died just after we were born,” Paul explained.

  “I know,” said Tarah. They know nothing about the horror, the trial, she knew.

  Then they heard again the flapping of a bird’s wings. The sound came from outside. Beyond the glass wall.

  Again, the bird disappeared into the sky, a sheet of blue shattered shimmeringly by the spilled sun.

  The bird floated weightlessly over the island, over trees closing in over an alcove, leaves creating an unfinished jigsaw puzzle with the jagged patch of sky.

  Blue looked away from the bird. “After I saw the hideous face— . . .” he said.

  “The demonic face in the mirror,” Jeremy remembered. “Before your association with the woman you mentioned— . . . ?” The question formed involuntarily. He regretted it instantly. It committed his interest, which he wanted suddenly to withdraw. Because he felt threatened: Blue’s words were assuming a curious physical shape about him. Strange images: like predatory birds clawing at him. He was aware of a struggle, unnamed, between him and the youngman. Only its style was being shaped now.

  “No—before. I was terrified by that face, man. It lasted only a few moments. But I kept thinking it would come back,” Blue said. “And the thought kept bum-tripping me.”

  And did it come back? Jeremy wanted to ask, but this time he didn’t.

  Blue answered the unasked question: “It never came back. So far.”

  “Is that what you want to confess?” Jeremy asked. This time, the question was a challenge.

  “I’m not confessing, man,” Blue said, understanding the implied challenge. “Just rapping.” His mind floated over the battlefield of sexual memories. “Diggit: A meek little man. He lay on the floor, man, I straddled him.” His eyes demanded a reaction—shock, indignation, anger.

  But the priest did not react. He could still hear the sound of the bird’s flapping wings. Or did he merely grasp for it to thwart the sound of Blue’s words?

  “The little man pretended he was a urinal,” Blue flung the words defiantly at the priest. “And I pissed on him through a hole he had just bitten at the tip of my blue rubber— . . .”

  “What do you want from me!” Jeremy demanded suddenly. He stood up, Blue stood too.

  With real panic, Blue yelled at the priest: “I want you to— . . . What I’ve told you, it’s only— . . .” (Blood! The remembered spectacle of it seemed to smear the priest’s fierce face.) “Listen, man! Listen to your fucking blasphemy! I called on the Lord Satan!” Blue shouted. “I became his disciple Susej! And he demanded a human sacrifice!”

  Would he understand my confession? It was that sudden thought ripped uncontrollably from the priest’s mind that made him move away from Blue, from Blue and his words. He walked away from the alcove quickly, as if those words would pursue him, capture him, assault him.

  Before the house, he paused, undecided whether to enter. Suddenly he was aware of a somber figure staring down at him from an upstairs window. (Painted fingernails on the swollen stomach. He remembered that, and he heard: Echoes within the canyons of his mind: Laughter, moans. And: A scream from another eternal moment.) Before ascending the steps leading into the white rotunda, the priest turned away from the house, along another path.

  Now the figure at the window in Malissa’s suite looked beyond the beautiful priest and saw Blue walking toward the house. He moved weightlessly, like a cunning, sensual animal. La Duquesa sighed: “I’ll always be true to the memory of the Duke.”

  “Always, huh?” said Rev.

  “Always.” La Duquesa drew the black veil protectively over her face, as if to hide even further from Rev.

  Topaze was impatient for Malissa’s return; he strained toward the door. Tor still worked out with the weights.

  Without looking at her, Rev said to la Duquesa, “What is it like to wear a dress?”

  Albert frowned for la Duquesa.

  “What is it like to wear pants?” la Duques
a snapped haughtily.

  “But a dude wearing a dress!” Rev attempted to taunt her.

  “Then ask a dude who wears a dress!” la Duquesa rejected the taunt.

  Albert laughed, approving la Duquesa’s answer. “Well spoken, your grace!”

  “Albert!” Malissa had entered the room. “Are you annoying them?” At the door her fingers reached out as if to claw at Albert from that distance.

  Topaze stood instantly beside her like a tiny sentry.

  La Duquesa drew the dark veil only enough to expose a gentle smile to Albert. “He’s not bothering anyone,” she defended him.

  Albert looked at la Duquesa in flooding gratitude. His ally! His only ally!

  It was that. Just that. As little as that. That smile—and the sudden thought of an ally. It was that which brought it about:

  As if he had been seized totally by another being, suddenly Albert faced Malissa defiantly. Topaze was the first to notice that. Alerted to the possible violence of insurrection, the midget’s eyes sparkled. He pointed at Albert.

  With great dignity—attempting to stretch his dumpy body to greater size—Albert announced, enunciating clearly: “Rev, Tor—you, Topaze!” He did not have to include la Duquesa; she was his ally. “All of you, listen, I want to tell you something. Finally. I want to tell you that I’m the source of the limitless wealth, I’m the one who has the money to support you. Not Malissa.” The finger he had intended pointing at her did not dare rise, not yet. “Without me,” he went on in a firm voice, “the entourage wouldn’t exist.”

  Malissa’s extended hands dropped in a flash of rubies, a brutal pantomime of crushing.

  “Without me,” Albert went on as if reciting words silently rehearsed for years, “without me all of you would be back to— . . . Topaze, you’d have to return to the circus. Imitation, gaudy finery, Topaze! Not the tailored clothes that hug your body! Tor, you!”

  Tor walked into the room. His blank face struggled for an expression.

  Malissa had not moved.

  “Tor,” Albert continued, “think of the endless days on beaches, waiting. Think of the eternity of the afternoons when it rains, when it’s cool—when there’s no sun to warm your muscles. Think of that. And think, Rev— . . . Petty crime— . . .”

  “Petty!” Rev objected.

  “Yes, petty,” Albert insisted. “Always hiding— . . . Do you want to go back to that—the circus, beaches, streets?” he asked the entourage. “I’m the one who keeps you from those lives.” He swallowed. “Topaze! Come here!” he tested his new authority.

  Topaze looked at Malissa.

  Only her eyes sent commands: a vortex of funnels, spirals, currents: twisting.

  “Topaze!” Albert repeated, trying to square his round frame, to force it to grow; but, already, a note of entreaty had crept into the imitation authority.

  Topaze did not move.

  Desperately Albert spun about toward Tor. “Tor!” Albert’s voice assumed a hard tone. “Come here!”

  Instinctively, Tor flexed. Malissa’s blue-shielded gaze was on him like dry ice. Tor’s body relaxed.

  Frantically, Albert implored: “Tor . . . I command— . . .”

  Now the bodybuilder did not move.

  Tears, perspiration, either or both covered Albert’s face. An inept general, he had moved too quickly, too clumsily into a fatal ambush. To thwart total defeat, fighting for authority, he rushed at the midget: “Topaze, I command you— . . .!” He moved frenziedly now to Rev. “Rev!” He tried every possible exit out of the trap.

  The cold-blue message of Malissa’s eyes was a presence. It restrained the others almost physically, binding them to her.

  “Rev!” Albert gasped. He pulled at the dark-youngman’s vest. The exposed head of the tattooed panther, eyes glaring, menaced him. Rev looked quickly at Malissa. She nodded like an empress at a gory circus, calling for the slaughter. Rev pushed Albert violently back.

  Albert fell panting to the floor near la Duquesa.

  She looked down sadly at him. With dignity, smoothing her black veils, she knelt to help the quivering man. She held out her hand to him.

  “Thank you, your grace,” he whimpered gratefully, taking her hand.

  “Albert!” Malissa buried the name into him like a fatal knife. The word released her body. The slashing motions of her fantastic hands resumed, spewing out their arcane curses. “Enough of your lies and your ridiculous poses! I may have to commit you if you continue to hallucinate!”

  Albert reacted automatically like a private summoned to attention.

  “Note this well, Albert!” Malissa whirled toward Topaze. “Topaze, choose!”

  Topaze moved quickly to her side.

  “Rev!”

  The knife in his hand—an additional ally she could count on—Rev stood next to Malissa.

  “Tor!”

  He joined the others.

  Malissa glanced at la Duquesa. The veiled eyes met the blue-shielded eyes. No. Not yet. Quickly Malissa said: “You’re wrong, Albert. I have the power. Without me, you have nothing! Repeat it, Albert!”

  “Without you, I have nothing,” Albert whispered.

  Tarah watched Paul and Valerie move away from her in the room where the draped props waited to be revealed. She saw: In the domed hall Mark stopped to speak to the blond youngman who moved like a stealthy cat.

  She turned away swiftly. She had returned here to confront Richard. Nothing must thwart the impact of that confrontation. Yes, hatred bound her to him like love. That night, as she crossed into the dark room from the lighted hall—in retrospect, the tunnel of a nightmare—she had intersected the line of love and hate. She had also moved into the country of unfillable sexuality carved by Richard, she reminded herself firmly.

  Her thoughts had seized her so intensely that until she saw her reflection in the water she did not realize she had actually walked outside of the house and now stood at the edge of the pool. The sun was an unshifting, glaring white eye. Tarah hid from its brightness behind dark sunglasses. Bending down, she thrust her hand into the water, destroying the reflected reality of her world. Then she saw the shattered reflection of someone beside her. The young priest.

  “You startled me,” she said, rising.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized.

  “Why are you here, Father?” she asked him.

  For a moment he seemed not to know what to answer. Then he repeated the facts of Richard’s invitation, the archbishop’s insistence. “And Richard said he needed me.”

  “Richard? Needed you, Father?” she said in astonishment. “Richard doesn’t need anyone.” Over his white collar, the hair which must coat his chest heavily was visible. Tarah imagined the stark pattern, a solid “X” on his naked body. He was so young, so beautiful. So pure. Had he ever been with a woman?

  Removing the sunglasses, she held them clenched in her teeth, the frame on one side pointing to the parting between her full breasts.

  The priest followed the direction of the dangling frame. (Flesh! Bodies mounted on bodies like animals!) He tore his stare from the woman’s breasts. “I’m sorry I startled you,” he said.

  As he moved away, she studied his broad shoulders, narrow hips. The nerve of her sensuality had been touched—a sensuality hidden from her son during the periodic trips when she was a sexual prowler. Now, here— . . .

  Thoughts tumbled into a frenzied fantasy of bodies, sexual images like hungry eagles raiding her mind: Tor, she preferred lithe bodies, but his was so outrageously stunning, the bulging muscles pressed against her body, Rev, the hint of sex braced with violence, the exposed tattoos, Topaze, the perfect miniature man, Blue, the tawny, sensual, brown body, the curiously intriguing tattooed ankle, her mind swept with images, the priest, beautiful like those martyrs who burn in ecstasy with the passion of sexuality: all thrusting into her.

  The fantasy erupted further. For an astonished instant before she rejected it, her mind caught the beautiful face of— . . . A man, a
youngman. Mark— . . . Richard’s features superimposed— . . . Richard! No, Mark— . . . Paul! Paul— . . . Mark— . . . No— . . . !

  With a sudden muffled cry of despair, fleeing a vicissitude of bodies and faces becoming one, just one, she ran frantically toward the house.

  From his room upstairs, Blue saw the priest move away from Tarah. Now he looked at her as she rushed into the house.

  Without his realizing it until now, Blue had been repeating the same words over and over since he had separated from the priest in the alcove:

  Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.

  Suddenly the origin of the unpronounced words was reversed: In Blue’s mind it was the priest who knelt before him.

  8

  Savannah’s room swam in mirrors. Still naked, she pulled the cord to one side of the bed on which she lay. Withdrawing panels over the bed revealed still another mirror, amber-tinted, round, gold-wreathed. Savannah stretched her glorious body, exposing it more fully to the golden pool of the mirror, offering it to its own reflection. Her auburn hair covered only one breast. The honey triangle at her legs was just lightly brushed with tawny hair, highlighted gold.

  Untouched! Unsmeared! Unsullied!

  Her mind repeated those words over and over, a litany to her perfect beauty.

  Now her arms rose toward the mirror as if to bring the reflection of herself on her: her body on her own magnificent body.

  In that moment she appeared to herself a reflected “X” laid out in naked sacrifice.

  (Blood!) Swiftly she shifted her body, destroying the reflection. (The memory persisted: Her hand. Blood covering her fingers!) To expel the unwelcome images, she dressed quickly. The room seemed to scream a buried secret. She left it, closing the door hurriedly as if to lock within it the savage vibrations.

  Now completely composed, wearing very low-rise lavender pants, inches below her navel—her blouse exposing a major part of her breasts, the rim of the nipples lightly outlined under the sheer material which clung to her extravagant body as if wet—she descended the sweeping steps into the domed hall just as the priest entered the house, followed moments later by Tarah.