by Marta Acosta
“I can’t imagine you happily serving anywhere.”
“Let us return to the topic of los vampiros,” I said. “Sam is going to be irked that they brought me out here, coach airfare by the way, and slapped on this outrageous request for a loyalty oath.”
“Did they ask for anything else?”
I was sure that his administrative toady, Mrs. Smith, had told him about the celibacy requirement.
“Nothing else,” I said. “But as I was leaving, I thought I heard someone in distress down there, a voice crying out.”
He shrugged, “Possibly one of the denizens of the subway, but they can’t intrude on our catacombs from their tunnels.”
“That’s what Nixon said. Where’s your girlfriend?”
“Ilena’s on her way to Geneva.”
So I was alone with him. “A modeling job?”
“Not this time. She also works in international finances, advising on private sector development.”
“She’s a model and a financier?”
“Yes.”
“Of course she is.” Many of the vamps were overachievers, so it figured their longtime allies were as well. “She seems very, uhm, practical.”
“And quite stunning, don’t you think? I’m terribly fond of her.”
“I’m so glad that you’ve found someone who suits your lifestyle.” I wasn’t entirely successful in keeping the sarcasm out of my voice. “Jet-setting, bon vivanting, soirees, international orgies, all that.”
“You’ve summed up my existence in its totality.” He was smiling, but not amused. “You’re probably much happier isolated in the country.”
Before I could stop myself I said, “My dog died, Ian. Daisy died.” I hated the thought of her out there in the field alone. The pain rose again, at the base of my throat, and I put my hand there.
“Oh, my dear girl,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
I swiped at my eyes.
He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to me. Then he placed his hand in the center of my chest, the part that held the pain. His warmth infused me, taking the edges off the pain. I didn’t know if Ian was playing some vampire parlor trick on me or, worse, if I was responding to his comfort.
He took his hand off me and moved toward the library table. “Would you like to go out? Indulge in a little bon vivanting?”
I nodded.
“I have some business to take care of first.”
“That’s fine. I’ll just get ready,” I said.
I went up to the guest room and took a long shower, sampling the interesting bath products. When I was living on my own and broke, I’d use a bar of soap until it was a sliver so thin I couldn’t hold it any longer. I’d melt the slivers together to make a lumpy new bar, a trick my abuelita had taught me.
A rose silk dress was the prettiest thing I’d brought, and Ilena’s so-called compliment still stung. I slipped it on over my prettiest panties, bra, and slip. Staring in the foggy mirror, I agreed with Pally’s assessment. I wasn’t a chubby pickle-I was a succulent babe. I blow-dried my hair so that it fell smoothly over my shoulders, and used a rosy lip gloss and an extra coat of mascara.
I slid my feet into high-heeled slingbacks, which gave me four additional inches of height, if not the freakish height of a model.
I picked a pretty shawl for the evening chill and went downstairs. Ian was waiting for me in the living room. He stood as I came in. He’d changed into an elegant black suit and a snowy white shirt. His hair was still damp and he smelled of that marvelous cologne.
“Young Lady, you look lovely. Shall we?”
It suddenly felt like a date. We exchanged good-byes with Ms. Smith and went to the car out front. The driver opened the door for us and we got in. I asked, “So when does Ilena return?”
“Soon, or I shall meet up with her,” Ian said. “I thought we might start at an artist’s reception.”
The reception was held in a converted warehouse on the waterfront. The late afternoon light filled the loft and I felt amazingly cosmopolitan when I ran into an F.U. acquaintance who was a friend of the painter.
The room got crowded and the conversation grew louder as people tried to talk over the music. As the sky darkened, I got that rush I always got at night in a city, anticipating all the possibilities. The people who came out at night were more exciting, more adventurous, more glamorous.
Then Ian and I went to a cocktail party in a stunning white and mirrored penthouse apartment. The host was a well-known author and when Ian told him that I was a writer, he asked, “What are you working on now?”
“A commissioned project based on ethnobotany and folklore, two of my interests. I’ve also written novellas paying homage to the writing of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. They’re about the monsters that lie within us.”
“Sounds interesting. Have your agent send me a copy.”
Before I could tell him that my agent had dumped me, the author got pulled away by a guest. No matter. I would send him a copy of Uno, Dos, Terror! and he would see that I was a serious writer.
As guests moved on to the next social engagement, Ian said, “Are you hungry? Do you still like to dance?”
“Yes to both questions.”
“There’s a place I’ve heard about,” he said. He called his driver to bring the car up and we went out to meet it.
The driver took us through a run-down neighborhood of brick houses and farther on to an area with boarded-up buildings and broken windows. Ian asked the driver to stop and said, “We can walk the rest of the way.”
We stepped out of the car, and Ian took my arm and led me through a dirty littered alley. I became aware of delicious aromas and the faint sound of salsa music when a sturdy mixed-race young Latino came down the alley toward us. He was so busy talking on his phone that he bumped into Ian.
In a second, Ian had grabbed the kid and slammed him up against a wall, lifting him so high the kid’s feet couldn’t touch the ground.
“Ian! It was just a bump,” I said as the kid was rapidly objecting, apologizing, and cursing in English and Spanish. He was about twenty, dressed in knockoff designer jeans, a T-shirt, and a cheap leather jacket.
Ian reached into the kid’s jacket and pulled out a wallet. “I believe this is mine,” he said, still holding the kid up against the wall.
“Ian Ducharme, let that boy down!”
Ian released the kid, who dropped heavily to the ground and immediately tried to run off.
My arm shot out and I grabbed the back of the kid’s jacket, wrenching him backward. “Uno momento, por favor,” I told him.
“What do you plan to do with him?” Ian asked. “Call the police and wait for hours? Why don’t we just drain him of blood and leave his lifeless corpse in a Dumpster?”
“Ha ha and ha, Ian.” The kid was twisting and struggling to escape and I told him, “Behave or I’ll rip your leg off and use it to beat some manners into you. What’s your name?”
“Frankie,” he said dejectedly as I dragged him along toward the delicious aromas. “You’re strong for a chick.”
“Crazy strong, emphasis on the crazy,” I said. “I’m Milagro and this is Ian.”
“Where we going?”
“There’s a Cuban restaurant here,” Ian said, which set Frankie off into another struggle to escape.
While I tussled with Frankie until he was convinced that I was both serious and stronger than he, Ian watched and chuckled.
“Aren’t you going to help?” I snapped at him.
“Yes. Frankie, don’t muss the young lady’s dress. It’s a favorite of mine.”
The alley opened to another alley and I saw the restaurant. The rich aromas and throbbing music came from a small, jungle green wooden building without even any signage. We went inside and the small cramped tables were filled with people eating meals off paper plates. A fortyish woman in an apron shouted, “Frankie! Where you been? Get back outside.”
“Yeah, mami,” he said. Tur
ning to us, he said, “I gotta get back to work.”
I was so surprised that I let him go, but we followed him through the restaurant and out the back door. The backyard was illuminated by strings of colored Christmas lights. On a small platform, a sizzling hot band played tropical rhythms. Several couples, as supple and gorgeous as leopards, danced on the patio. At the back of the yard was a roaster made from cement blocks, and on a plywood table, a roast pig was being carved by a tiny man. Frankie went to the man and took over his duties.
We sat at the only empty table, and Frankie’s mother came to us. There was something very familiar about the chubby, exasperated woman. “You want the special? Something to drink?”
Ian told her to bring us whatever she thought we’d enjoy.
She was surprisingly incurious about our relationship with her son, but when she returned with two heaping plates of food, she said, “Frankie break into your car or something? Dinner’s on the house and he’ll pay you back whatever he owes.”
“Not at all, ma’am,” Ian said. “We saw him on the street and asked for directions. He was kind enough to help us.”
She said, “Really? Huh!” and then, “Okay, then I’ll run a tab for you.”
We drank fruity punch made with red wine and rum and ate tender, citrus-marinated roast pork with mojo, arroz, and fried plбtanos. As I listened to the blast of the trumpets and the beat of the timbale, I had to admit that Oswald’s mother and Nancy weren’t so very wrong about me: I would love to have a wedding in a place like this, a place that fed all my senses.
Ian said, “Shall we?” He led me into the crowd of dancers and took me in his arms. I reveled in the delicious warmth and the tingle that came from the places where our skin touched. I wondered what that sensation would feel like on other parts of my body, a thought I shouldn’t be having.
Ian’s face came close to mine, his lips so near my neck that I could feel his breath. He pulled me tight, and my hips moved in rhythm with his. I felt as if I could anticipate his moves, and I wished I could dance with Oswald like this.
When the song ended, Ian smiled at me. “I’ve missed the way you smell.”
“Like dinner,” I said.
“Like no one else.”
The crowd began clapping and shouting. I looked to the stage and saw the trumpeter pulling Frankie’s mom up. As she untied her apron and smiled, I said, “That’s Juanita! I saw her singing at My Dive!”
She began to sing a romantic bolero, too romantic for my situation, which was standing beside a continental smoothie who had put his arm around my waist. Someone tapped my shoulder and I felt as if I’d received a death row reprieve from the governor. I stepped away from Ian and turned to see Frankie.
The young guy was shuffling his feet and mumbling, “So I’m sorry. No harm, no foul. Let’s move on.”
“Good idea, but how should we do that? Why were you stealing when you’ve got a job?”
He shrugged. “I’m trying to get a little money together so I can get out of here. Maybe go to California and meet me some California girls.”
As a California girl, I was deeply and sincerely touched.
Ian said, “An admirable goal.”
“I can’t believe your mom is Juanita,” I told Frankie. “I saw her playing with the Rat-Dogs.”
“That crazy band,” Frankie said. “Who wants to listen to klezmer and salsa?”
“I do. She’s following her heart,” I said. “What do you think you’d like to do with your life?”
“You know, work in a club. Or cook, maybe.”
I opened my evening bag and searched through my wallet until I found Mercedes’s business card. “Give Mercedes a call. She might be able to help. Tell her your mom’s Juanita and Milagro told you to call.”
Frankie was staring at the card as we left the restaurant.
I said to Ian, “He’s just going to go out and rob again, isn’t he?”
“So I’d wager, Young Lady. Would you like me to check up on him later?”
“That would be nice.”
“I would only do it for you,” Ian said, and then he called his driver, who met us a block away. As I sat in the backseat of the car, I stared out the window, hoping I would be able to remember it all.
We neared a river and I saw a bridge sparkling with lights. “It’s so beautiful. This country is so beautiful.” I suddenly felt sad. “Nixon, or whoever he really is, told me that I’d never be fully accepted as an American.”
“Nixon’s a sly one. He’s playing upon your weakness-your desire to be accepted.” Ian turned to me with a smile, his teeth gleaming white in the darkness of the car.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a normal human desire.”
“My dear girl, normal and human isn’t enough for you.”
“No, normal and human isn’t enough for you. I would be delighted with normal and human,” I said, but he had made me feel better.
When we got back to the house, Ian asked, “Would you like to see the garden? It was designed to be enjoyed at night.”
“I’d like that. I’ve only seen the tops of the trees from my window.”
“Come then.” He led me through the hallways to a breakfast room with French doors opening onto the backyard. He flipped a switch and lights glowed on the stone paths.
As we walked into the garden, I inhaled the fragrance from aromatic herbs that were planted in formal circles. We walked into a small grove of ancient birch trees with papery white trunks. In the center of the grove was a small amphitheater with two concentric rows of marble benches. Ian said, “When our people first lived in this house, they held ceremonies here. It’s one of our oldest sites in this country.”
“The birches are beautiful,” I said, listening to their long graceful branches swish and whisper in the light breeze.
Ian took a gold penknife from his pocket and I held my breath as I wondered what he was going to do. Then he cut three switches from the trees, folded the knife, and put it away, and began braiding the switches.
“You know how to braid?”
“I used to braid my sister’s hair.”
I watched as he twisted the birch branches into a wreath. He placed it atop my head and then took my hands. The warmth and tingling spread throughout my body and I was aware only of Ian-his brown eyes so dark they looked black in the shadows, his aquiline nose, and the sense of power that emanated from him.
“You’ve never heard our language spoken correctly.” He began speaking softly in the strange language. From his mouth, the words had a compelling, lyrical quality.
“I’ll teach you,” he said. He uttered some words, and I repeated the sounds, surprised that I could pronounce them.
I felt the blood rising in my skin, almost as if it was moving toward Ian. I thought I could hear the blood flowing in his veins. I wondered what it would be like to bite into his flesh, to once again fill my mouth with his intoxicating blood. “What does it mean?”
“It means that my blood is your blood, my life is yours,” he said, moving close. “Don’t go back, Milagro. Stay with me.”
I stepped back, pulling my hands away. “Why do you do this? You know that I love Oswald, and he loves me.”
“He may think he loves you, but he’s been in love half a dozen times since I’ve known him. He’s addicted to your blood.”
“That’s impossible. I don’t even let him drink it anymore. I haven’t since…” I hadn’t craved Oswald’s blood since Ian had given me his own. “I love him.”
“You’re mistaking your love for his family with love for the first vampire you had sex with.”
“But Ian, you were the first vampire I had sex with-and I don’t love you. It was just sex, a meaningless fling.” The words sounded far harsher than I’d intended, and I said quietly, “What would we have had anyway, Ian? A few weeks of partying until the next Ilena came along?”
“I would be by your side, Milagro, and you would be the woman you’re meant to b
e.” There was anger in his voice. “The longer you stay with Grant, the more he’ll try to make you into a conventional, ordinary wife, and you’ll both grow to resent each other.”
“You don’t know me, or what I want in life.” I wanted a home, family, love, a normal life.
“I knew you the moment I set eyes on you. I knew you the moment I tasted you. I know you every time I touch you and feel something I feel with no one else.”
“You can’t know someone that way.” I pulled the beautiful red ring from my finger and held it out. “I shouldn’t be wearing this. Please don’t send me any more gifts.” When he didn’t take it back, I let the ring drop to the ground.
I ran inside and up the stairs to my room and shut the door behind me. My hands were shaking as I took the birch wreath from my head.
eight
home is where you hang your bat
I had a restless night but had finally fallen asleep. There was a knock on my door. “Come in,” I said. I didn’t know if I hoped it was Ian or not.
Ms. Smith came in with a breakfast tray. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I said.
She placed the tray on my lap. “The driver will be back in time to take you to the airport this afternoon. Lord Ian asked me to tell you good-bye for him.”
“Ian’s gone?”
“He left early to meet Ilena.” Ms. Smith went to open the drapes. It was a beautiful morning. “I’m glad he’s found someone after all he’s been through.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked puzzled. “You know about his parents?”
I shook my head.
“Not everyone is meant to be a parent,” she said kindly.
“My mother Regina wasn’t.” I doubted that Ian’s parents could have been more unfit than the woman who’d filled a kiddie pool to the brim and left me in there alone as a toddler.
“He’s always been so responsible, even when he was a boy. He insisted they take in Cornelia. She was such a beautiful child, you can’t imagine, but frail and traumatized after her parents’ deaths.”