We Mate in the Dark

by Maxim Jakubowski

  I’d read the innumerable books; heard of the countless legends.

  “And if I allowed you to taste my blood, bite me... What would happen?” I asked her.

  “You know,” she said.

  Yes I knew. I would die. But awaken anew as a monster. Another freak who could only survive the madness by feeding on the blood of others. As she had done for centuries.

  But I loved her now. Of that I had no doubt. And I wanted us to stay together. Forever.

  Now we had met, now we had come as one, neither of us could ever bear the loneliness of being apart again.

  “I will,” I said.

  I maxxed my credit cards and we took a flight to Venice. Our hotel is a converted palazzo and from our windows we have a half glimpse of the Grand Canal and further upstream the stillness of the lagoon. Maybe I’m too much of a romantic, but I wanted it to happen in a place like this.

  On a day like this I have asked her to kill me so I can live forever and roam the land of death with her until the end of time, both now renegades, lovers in the blood, vampires.

  L’Americaine

  Cornelia took the RER from Roissy-Charles De Gaulle. A taxi would have been easier and more relaxed after the 7 hour plane journey, but she knew she had to remain as anonymous as possible. Cab drivers have a bad habit of remembering tall, lanky blondes, particularly so those who did not wish to engage in needless conversation and reveal whether it was their first time in Paris or was she coming here on holiday?

  Because she knew there were countless CCTV cameras sprinkled across the airport and the train terminal, she had quickly changed outfits in a somewhat insalubrious toilet shortly after picking her suitcase up from the luggage carrousel, and by the time she walked on to the RER train, she now had a grey scarf obscuring her blonde curls and wore a different outfit altogether from the flight. It was far from foolproof, but at least would serve its purpose in muddying the waters in the eventuality of a later, thorough investigation.

  The commuters on the train to Paris looked grey and tired, wage slaves on their mindless journey to work or elsewhere. A couple of teenage Arab kids listening to rap or was it hip hop on their Ipods glanced at her repeatedly, but her indifference soon got the better of them and she wasn’t bothered until the Luxembourg Gardens stop where she got off.

  She had booked herself into a small hotel there on the Internet the previous day. She checked herself in under the false name on her spare passport, a Canadian one she’d seldom used before. She took a shower and relaxed before taking the lift to the lobby around lunch hour and noticed someone new had taken over at the registration desk from the young woman who’d earlier checked her in. She calmly walked back to her room and stuffed some clothes into a tote bag and went down to the lobby again and left the hotel. Fifteen minutes later, she registered at another hotel, near the Place de L’Odeon, this time under her real name. This booking she’d made by phone from New York a week or so before. She was now the proud tenant of two separate hotel rooms under two separate names and nationalities. Both rooms were noisy and looked out onto busy streets, but that was Paris, and anyway she wasn’t here for a spot of tourism. This was work. She settled in the new room, took a nap, and just before the evening walked out and took a cab to the Place de L’Opera. There was thin jiffy bag waiting for her at the American Express Poste Restante. Here, she retrieved the key she had purchased back in Brooklyn Beach from a Russian connection she occasionally used. She then caught another taxi to the Gare du Nord, where she located the left luggage locker which the key opened. The package was anonymous and not too bulky. She picked up a copy of Liberation and casually wrapped it around the bundle she had just retrieved from the locker and walked down the train station stairs to the Metro and took the Porte d’Orleans line back to Odeon. In the room, she unwrapped the package and weighed the Sig Sauer in her hand. Her favourite gun. Perfect.

  The Italian girl had always preferred older men. Some of her friends and other fellow students at La Sapienza, Rome’s University, had always kidded her she had something of a father fixation, and indeed her relationship with her gastro-enterologist Dad was prickly to say the least, seesawing between devotion and simmering anger. At any rate, he also spoiled her badly.

  But boys her age seemed so clumsy and uninteresting, coarse, superficial, so sadly predictable, and she found herself recoiling instinctively from their tentative touches all too often. Not that she knew what exactly she wanted herself.

  Whenever asked about her plans for the future, she would answer in jest (or maybe not) that she planned to marry an ambassador and have lots of babies. When Peppino -the name she would use for her much older, foreign lover so as to make him difficult to identify for her parents- queried her about this, she would add that the ambassador would also be a black man, a big man in both size and personality. He would smile silently in response, betraying his own personal fears and prejudices, only to point out that she’d be wasting so many opportunities by becoming merely a wife. After all, this was a young woman who by the age of 22 had a degree in comparative literature, spoke five languages, and would surely make a hell of a journalist or foreign correspondent one day.

  Her affair with the man she and her friends affectionately called Peppino had lasted just over a year and he had been the first man she had fucked. To her amazement, he had become not just a lover but her professor of sex; unimaginably tender, crudely transgressive and the first time she had come across a guy who understood her so well their contact when apart became almost telepathic. However, he was also more than twice her age, lived in another country and happened to be married, which sharpened her longing and her jealousy to breaking point. The affair had proven both beautiful and traumatic, but eventually the enforced separation from Peppino could not be assuaged by telephone calls, frantic emails and mere words any longer. For her sanity, she was obliged to break up with him. Even though she also loved him. She had a life to live, adventures to experience; he had already lived his life, hadn’t he? Now was her time. The decision was a painful one and he naturally took it badly. Not that her state of mind was much better, wracked by doubts, heartache and regrets by the thousands as both Peppino and she could not help recalling the days and nights together, the shocking intimacy they had experienced, the pleasure and complicity, the joy and the darkness. Sleepless nights and silent unhappiness followed in her wake and she agreed to visit a girlfriend from her Erasmus months in Lisbon who lived in Paris -ironically, a city he had always wanted to take her to.

  It was a wet spring and the thin rain peppered the Latin Quarter pavements with a coating of grey melancholy. Flora had left for the countryside and her grandparents’ villa and left the Italian girl on her own for a few days. Initially, she had looked forward to the prospect but now felt herself particularly lonely. When she was not busy and frantically exploring the city with her friend, memories just kept on flooding back.

  She was sitting reading a book at the terrace of Les Deux Magots, sipping a coffee, half-watching the world pass by, women who walked elegantly, young men who looked cute but would surely prove dull in real life she thought, when she heard the seductive voice of the bad man across her shoulders.

  “That’s a quite wonderful book, Mademoiselle,” he said. “I envy you the experience of reading it for the first time. Truly.”

  Giuly looked up at him.

  He looked older. How could he not be?

  Cornelia much preferred ignorance. A job was a job and it was better not to have to know any of the often murky reasons she was given an assignment.

  Had the target stolen from another party, swindled, lied, killed, betrayed? It was not important.

  Cornelia knew she had a cold heart. It made her work easier, not that she sought excuses. She would kill both innocent and guilty parties with the same set of mind. It was not hers to reason why.

  She had been given a thin dossier on her Paris mark, a half dozen pages of random information about his haunts and habits and a co
uple of photographs. A manila folder she had slipped between her folded black cashmere sweaters in her travelling suitcase, to which she had added a few torn out pages from the financial pages of THE NEW YORK TIMES and a section on international investment from THE WALL STREET JOURNAL to muddy the waters in the event of an unlikely snap examination of her belongings by customs at either JFK or Roissy. He was a man in his late forties, good-looking in a rugged sort of way which appealed to some women, she knew. Tall-ish, hair greying at the temples in subdued and elegant manner. She studied one of the photographs, and noted the ice-green eyes, and a steely inner determination behind the crooked smile. A dangerous man. A bad man.

  But they all have weaknesses, and it appeared his was women. It usually was. Cornelia sighed. Kept on reading the information sheet she had ben provided with, made notes. Finally, she booted up her laptop and went online to hunt down the ‘clubs echangistes’ her prey was known to frequent on a regular basis. They appeared to be located all over the city, but the main ones appeared to be in the Marais and close to the Louvre. She wrote down the particulars of Au Pluriel, Le Chateau des Lys, Les Chandelles and Chris et Manu, and studied the respective web sites. She’d been to a couple of similar ‘swing’ clubs back in the States, both privately and for work reasons. She’d found them somewhat sordid. Maybe the Parisian ones would prove classier, but she had doubts about it. Cornelia had no qualms about public sex, let alone exhibitionism -after all she had stripped for a living some years earlier and greatly enjoyed the sensation- but still found that sex was an essentially private communion. But then she’d always had an uneasy relationship and perception of sex, and at a push would confess to decidedly mixed feelings about it.

  Would sex in Paris, sex and Paris prove any different, she wondered?

  She rose from the bed where she had spread out the pages and photos, switched off the metal grey laptop and walked pensively to the hotel room’s small, pokey bathroom. She pulled off her tee shirt and slipped of her white cotton panties and looked at herself in the full length mirror.

  And shed a tear.

  The bad man had no problem seducing the young Italian woman. He had experience and a deceptive elegance. Anyway, she was on the rebound from her Peppino and a vulnerable prey. Had her first lover not warned her that no man would ever love her, touch her with as much tenderness as he? And had she not known in her heart that he was right? But falling into the arms of the Frenchman was easy, a way of moving on, she reckoned. She knew all he really wanted to do her was fuck her, use her and that was good enough for now for Giuly. She was lost and the excesses of sex was as good a way of burying the past and the hurt. This new man would not love her; he was just another adventure on the road. So why not? This was Paris, wasn’t it? And spring would soon turn into summer and she just couldn’t bear the thought of returning to Rome and resuming her Ph.D. studies and being subsidised by her father.

  She rang home and informed her parents she would be staying on in Paris for a few more months. There were protests and fiery arguments, but she was used to manipulating them. She was old enough by now, she told them, to do what she wanted with her life.

  “Respect me, and my needs” she said. Nor for the first time.

  “Do you need money?” her father asked.

  “No, I’ve found a job, helping out in a bookshop,” she lied.

  The Frenchman -he said he was a businessman, something in export/import- ordered her to move in with him and Giuly accepted. She couldn’t stay on at Flora’s without revealing her new relationship.

  At first, it was nice to sleep at night in bed with another person, a man. Feeling the warmth of the other’s body, waking up to another naked body next to her own. And to feel herself filled to the brim when he made love to her. To again experience a man’s cock growing inside her as it ploughed her, stretched her. To take a penis, savour its hardening inside her mouth, to hear a man moan above her as he came, shuddered, shouted out obscenities or religious adjectives and the heat waves coursing from cunt to heart to brain. Of course, it reminded her of Peppino. But then again, it was different. No fish face at the moment of climax with this new man, just a detached air of satisfaction, almost cruelty as he often took her to the brink and retreated, playing with her senses, enjoying her like an object.

  Day times, he would often leave her early in the morning and go about his work and Giuly would explore Paris, fancy free, absorbing the essence of the city in her long, lanky stride. For the first time in ages, she felt like a gypsy again, like the young teenager who would live on the streets of Rome and even enjoy sleepless nights wandering from alleys to coffee shops with a cohort of friends or even alone, drinking on life with no care in the world. In the Belleville, she discovered a patisserie with sweet delicacies, near Censier-Daubenton she made an acquaintance with a young dope dealer who furnished her with cheap weed, which she would take care never to smoke at the man’s apartment off the Quai de Grenelle. As with Peppino, she knew older guys secretly disapproved of her getting high, as if pretending they had never been young themselves. Neither did they appreciate The Clash, she’d found out... He would leave her money when he left her behind but she was frugal and never used it all or asked for more.

  And at night, after her aimless, carefree wanderings, he would treat her to fancy restaurants -she’d cooked for him a few times at the flat but he was not too keen on pasta or tomato sauce or seemingly of Italian food and then bring her back to the bedroom where he would fuck her. Harder and harder. As she offered no resistance and her passiveness increased, the bad man went further. One night, he tied her hands. Giuly let him.

  Soon, he was encouraged to test her limits.

  She knew it was all going in the wrong direction and she should resist his growing attempts at domination. But the thought of leaving this strange new life in Paris and returning to Rome would feel like an admission of defeat, an acknowledgement that she should not have broken up with Peppino, and broken his heart into a thousand pieces, as she clearly knew she had. Maybe this was a form of penance, a way of punishing herself? She just didn’t know any more. Had she ever known?

  One dark evening, after he’d tied her hands to the bedpost and, somehow, her ankles, he’d taken her by surprise and despite her mild protests, had resolutely shaven away her thick thatch of wild, curling jet-black pubic hair and left her quite bald, like a child, which not only brought back bittersweet memories of her younger years but also a deep sense of shame and the fact she’d always insisted Peppino should not even trim her.

  The next day, the Frenchman used his belt on her arse cheeks and marked her badly.

  Sitting watching a film that afternoon in a small art house by the Odeon was painful, as Giuly kept on fidgeting in her seat to find a position that did not remind her of the previous evening’s punishment. Her period pains had also begun, as bad as ever; she’d once been told they’d only start improving after she’d had her first child.

  That night, the bad man wanted to fuck her, as usual and she pointed out that her period had begun. He became angry. He would have been quite furious had she actually revealed that she had once allowed Peppino to make love to her on such a day and the blood mass they had shared was still one of her most exquisitely shocking and treasured memory. He brutally stripped her, tied her hands behind her back and pushed her down on the floor, onto her stomach and sharply penetrated her arse hole, spitting onto his cock and her opening for necessary lubrication. She screamed in pain and he gagged her with her own panties and continued relentlessly to invest her. Giuly recalled how she had once assured Peppino as they spooned in bed one night how she would never agree to anal sex with him or anyone. Another promise betrayed, she knew. She grew familiar with the pain. She had never thought it would be so easy to break with her past.

  Later, as she lie there motionless, the bad man said:

  “Next week, I shall continue your education. I’m taking you to a club and I want to watch you being fucked by stranger, my sweet
Italian girl.”

  Giuly could say nothing. When he left the apartment, he retrieved her set of keys from her handbag and locked her in. They were on the fifth floor and she had no other way out. Giuly sighed.

  It was a night full of stars and the Seine quivered with a thousand lights.

  The taxi had dropped Cornelia around the corner of Les Chandelles. She looked out for a decent-looking cafe and sat herself at a table overlooking the street, where she would be highly visible to all passers-by. She wore an opaque white silk shirt and was, as ever, braless. Her short black skirt highlighted her endless pale legs and this was one of the rare occasions when she had lipstick on, a scarlet stain across her thin lips. She’d ruffled her hair, blonde medusa curls like a forest, and slowly sipped a glass of Sancerre, a US paperback edition of John Irving’s A WIDOW FOR ONE YEAR sitting broken-spined on the ceramic top next to the wine carafe.

  The bait was set. a lonesome American woman on a Friday night in Paris, just some steps away from a notorious ‘club echangiste’. L’ Americaine. She’d found out earlier, through judicious tipping and a hint of further largesse of another nature. from the club’s doorman that her target was planning to attend the club later this evening. The entrance fee for single women was advantageous but she felt she would attract less attraction if she were part of a couple. She’d gathered on the grapevine that lone men would often congregate here before moving on the club, in search of a partner.

  She’d been told right and within an hour, she’d been twice offered an escort into the premises. She hadn’t even needed to uncross her legs and reveal her lack of underwear. The first guy was too skanky for her liking, and altogether too condescending in the way he spoke to her in the slowly-enunciating manner some automatically do with foreigners. She quietly gave him the brush-off. He did not protest unduly. The second candidate was more suitable, a middle-aged businessman with a well-cut suit and half-decent after shave. Even sent her over a glass of champagne before actually accosting her. Much too old, of course, but then there was something about Paris and older men with younger women. The water, the air, whatever!