Magic & Mayhem

by Susan Conley

  “Sorry, Bécquer. I’m really sorry that you got hurt.”

  “You’re sorry?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then, maybe there’s still hope for me.”

  “Hope?”

  “I was not totally forthcoming before when I said I’m all right. My bones may have mended already, but the cuts from the glass will take longer to heal for some were deep and traces of glass may still remain in others.”

  He took my hand. A move I had not anticipated, and at his touch, a shiver ran down my spine. An unlikely reaction for his hand was warm.

  “Federico swears the blood he buys in bags is all he needs,” Bécquer was saying. “But even he recognized human blood would help me heal faster and agreed to drive me here today so I could ask you.”

  “Ask me — ?”

  “Whether you’d be my blood giver.”

  Chapter Twelve: Rachel

  I stared at Bécquer in total shock. Was he serious? Did he really expect me to agree to be his blood-giver?

  “I guess not,” he said when I didn’t answer. His eyes staring straight into mine were not pleading.

  He let go of my hand and leaned back in his chair. He looked tired, exhausted even, the dark circles under his eyes ever so visible on his fair skin that was crisscrossed with pale scars.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked him.

  “Not at all.” A spark in his eyes, again he bent forward, and then winced — a sign of pain that negated his enthusiastic denial. But Bécquer, as if oblivious to his own discomfort, continued eagerly, “The interchange is quite pleasurable, in fact. And it doesn’t have to be for long. A week perhaps. I will not ask you to stay after I’m whole again, I promise. I will give some of mine in exchange. Taking immortal blood will make you stronger. It will also extend your life and — ”

  “That is not what I meant.”

  Bécquer frowned. Then, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips, he added, “So will you do it?”

  Yes, my body screamed, with yearning for the power his blood had given me the previous evening.

  “No,” my reason answered. “I told you I didn’t want to share blood with you.”

  “Yes. You told me that before the party. But later you offered it to me.”

  “And you refused.”

  “And I would not be here begging, if I had accepted it. So, you see, we all make mistakes. I’m no hero, Carla. I want this to be over. But I’m no demon either. I have no devious plan for you afterward.”

  The strangest thing of all was that I believed him. I believed he didn’t mean to force me to stay when he didn’t need me any longer. I believed him. It was me I didn’t trust.

  I had tasted his blood only once and was already finding it almost impossible to resist its lure. How could I trust myself to give up drinking it after I had taken it for a week? And if I stayed longer as his giver, wouldn’t I end up like Beatriz, wanting its powers so badly I would steal it to become immortal?

  “You are not like Beatriz,” Bécquer said. He was using his powers to sense my feelings so he could convince me to do his bidding. If I could, wouldn’t I use them too? To anticipate my children’s mistakes? To keep them safe? To be there when they got in trouble, like Bécquer had done the day he took Ryan to the ER?

  “Beatriz had her agenda, her grandiloquent expectations of saving the world. You wouldn’t steal my blood.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I have had many blood givers. None of the others turned rogue.”

  Could it be because you manipulated their minds like you are manipulating mine? I thought but didn’t say aloud because I was too busy fighting the urge to agree.

  I pushed my chair back.

  Every breath hurting as if the air had frozen inside me, I got up. “I’m sorry, Bécquer, but I can’t.”

  I saw pain in his eyes, a flash of anger, before his features settled into a mask, a beautiful mask of cold disdain. “As you wish.”

  Before I could answer, Federico’s deep voice came from behind. “Took forever but here I am.”

  He came forward and set a tray with three cups on the table, three espressos black and steaming, while shooting a warning look at Bécquer. When he finished, he turned to me, “Carla, you’re not leaving now, are you?”

  I nodded, for I didn’t trust my voice would not break were I to speak.

  “But you can’t. You mustn’t,” Federico said, blocking my way.

  I felt the undercurrent of a silent conversation going on between them and the sense of loss at not being able to hear their minds hurt almost like a physical wound. I had to go, I knew, or I would agree if only to stop that yearning.

  “I’ll be leaving soon,” Federico continued. “And this may well be the last time we see each other. I would hate our acquaintance to end like this, in a hurried goodbye. Would you please humor me and take a seat?”

  I found myself obeying his soothing voice. For a moment, I wondered whether he was using his charm on me, but rejected the idea. I genuinely liked Federico and wanted to talk with him. Besides, who in her right mind would say no to a chance to be with him?

  Federico smiled and, after I moved aside my cold espresso, he handed me a new one.

  “Where is my latte?” Bécquer asked, his sharp words covering my thanks.

  Unperturbed by Bécquer’s demanding tone, Federico placed one of the cups in front of him. “You didn’t tell me you wanted a latte.”

  “No, I didn’t. You’re right. I didn’t because you didn’t bother to ask.”

  Federico sat down. “Gustavo, you don’t drink. So, really what does it matter which kind of coffee I brought you?”

  Bécquer glared at him. “And that shows how much you know me. I don’t need to drink. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy drinking coffee. And when I do drink it, I like it with milk. So, I’d really appreciate it if you’d get me a latte. I’d go myself, except you have made it very difficult for me to do anything on my own just now.”

  Federico’s eyes glowed red for a moment. Then, he turned and glanced at the counter where the line almost reached the door. When he looked back, his eyes were back to normal. “I’m sorry. But it would take me too long. Would you be so kind as to drink your coffee black just this time?”

  “Fine.” Reaching forward, he lifted his cup.

  Bécquer was right handed, I knew, and, his right arm being in a sling, he was using his left hand. Still, it seemed to me, he was inordinately inept with his left one. Or maybe he was weaker than his relaxed attitude had suggested for his hand was trembling, his movement so shaky, I had to stop myself from leaning forward to help him.

  But if Bécquer needed help, I reasoned, Federico would have offered it. Federico shrugged when I looked at him, and, grabbing his cup abruptly, drank his coffee in one gulp.

  The coffee had been too hot for me to take more than one sip, but Federico didn’t show any sign of distress. Unlike Bécquer who, as the rim of the cup touched his lips, winced. In Bécquer’s hand the cup trembled, the steaming liquid spilling over his fingers. Bécquer swore as the cup slipped from his grip and hit the table, coffee splashing in all directions.

  Federico stood and wheeled Bécquer chair back. “Really, Bécquer. Was that necessary?”

  Bécquer said nothing, but stared toward the counter while Federico offered him a white handkerchief he had produced from the pocket of his jacket to dry his hand.

  I got up to fetch some napkins from the island by the door. When I came back, the girl with the ginger hair who had greeted Bécquer before was by his side. The nametag on her black top read Rachel.

  I set the napkins on the table and sat down. The napkins were unnecessary for Rachel had already wiped the table with a cloth. She was fussing over Bécquer now, while Bécquer
stared at her, at her cleavage more precisely, for the girl was leaning over him. Visibly upset, she gushed excuses and apologies as if she were the one to blame.

  “Are you sure you didn’t burn yourself?” she asked.

  Bécquer shook his head and smiled at her, with that maddening smile of his that could melt ice.

  “Let me see.” She took his left hand in hers. “Oh no!” she said as she examined his fingers. “You did burn yourself. I’ll bring you some ice.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Rachel.” He pronounced her name slowly, rolling the R so that he was almost purring. “It is just a small burn. In my circumstances,” he waved his hand slowly to include his broken leg, his arm held in a sling, and the collar brace around his neck, “it does not signify.”

  The girl let out a nervous giggle. “May I at least bring you another coffee? Latte, isn’t it?”

  Bécquer beamed at her. “That would be lovely.”

  I followed Rachel with my eyes, frustrated at how much Bécquer’s flirting with her bothered me. Without making a conscious decision, I stood again.

  “I have to go,” I said to no one in particular and, grabbing my coat from the windowsill, I started for the door.

  This time, Federico did not try to stop me, but when I got to the parking lot he was waiting by my car.

  “Other door,” he said, pointing at the front of the building. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I came to apologize for Bécquer’s behavior and beg you to reconsider his proposal of becoming his blood giver.”

  “Did Bécquer send you?”

  “No. He’s too proud or too stupid to do so. Probably both. But he’s hurting and he needs you, so I came in his stead.”

  “You’re wrong. He doesn’t need me. Not anymore. He has found a new giver.”

  Federico sighed. “Yes, I guess Rachel would do anything for him at this point.

  “But don’t let his shameless flirting mislead you. I don’t think Bécquer cares for the girl. He’s probably charming her to cover his hurt at your rejection.”

  “Are you saying he’s using her? And you are all right with that?”

  “Don’t be so harsh on him, Carla. Bécquer was eleven the first time he tasted immortal blood. And although he remained human for many years, I think a part of him stopped growing that day. When he’s upset, he reverts to being that child.”

  “To be hurt is not an excuse to hurt others. If he behaves like a child, you should treat him like one. Don’t defend him, Federico. Let him make his own mistakes so he learns from them. Maybe then, he will finally grow up.”

  “You’re right, Carla. He needs to grow up. That’s why he needs you.” As if pre-empting my denial he hurried on, “Yes, I know Rachel would gladly give him her blood. But Bécquer needs someone like you who loves him for who he is, not a girl worshiping a god who doesn’t exist. Would you agree to come, if he promises not to charm her?”

  Too tired to deny his assumption that it was because I loved Bécquer that I didn’t want to be around him, I shook my head.

  “No. Even if he doesn’t charm this girl, there will be others. And I’m not you, Federico. I won’t accept that.”

  Federico nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Your decision is wise and I’ll abide by it. Loving Bécquer was for me an agony I do not wish on anyone.”

  “Take my card,” he added, offering me a card he had somehow magicked into his hand, “in case you ever need me.”

  “Goodbye, Carla,” he continued after I took it. “I hope you find a new love soon. For only another love displaces — even if it does not erase — the previous one.”

  I thanked him for I knew he meant well, even if another love was the last thing I wanted. As for forgetting Bécquer I was certain that, in my case, absence would do as well.

  Chapter Thirteen: Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

  I dreamed of Bécquer that night. Dreams of wanting and desire that only increased my determination to stay away from him. If my subconscious was sending a hint, it wasn’t a very subtle one. But my waking self would have none of this nonsense. Determined to forget him, I forced myself to sit and started typing at the computer.

  Not for long. The characters usually so eager to tell me their story were nothing but flat cutouts that morning, and the flow of words soon died on my fingertips.

  I gave up after a while and googled Bécquer’s name: Bécquer, Gustavo Adolfo. I had studied his work at school back in Spain, and still knew some of his poems by heart, but if I had learned anything about his life, I had forgotten since. In my search, I found two or three pictures of him in old style suits, but neither these photographs, nor the romantic portrait his brother Valeriano had painted of him (the one printed on the Spanish currency of the twentieth century), bore but a faint resemblance to the man haunting my dreams. As for the biographies I found online, they were sketchy to say the least. They provided the bare facts, but no insight into his mind:

  Bécquer was born in Sevilla in 1836 and lost his father when he was six. At eleven, after his mother’s death, he and his six brothers went to live with one of their mother’s sisters and several years later, he moved alone with his godmother.

  Later he would reunite with one of them, Valeriano, when at fourteen, he joined his uncle Joaquin’s studio as an apprentice. Like their father, like their uncle, Valeriano chose painting as his profession. Bécquer, although talented as a painter, loved books more and dreamed of becoming a writer.

  His dreams, and almost nothing else, he took with him when, at seventeen, he moved to Madrid with two of his friends. He survived, barely, by writing for newspapers and magazines, and coauthoring plays while working the odd clerical job he was ill-suited to maintain. At twenty-one, he fell sick with the first bout of the mysterious illness (TB was suspected) that would eventually kill him at thirty-four.

  With the care of his friends and of his brother Valeriano, who by then had moved to Madrid, he recovered. After a chance encounter, he fell desperately in love with Julia Espín, a beautiful actress who would become his muse even after she rejected him and married another.

  After another bout of illness, he married Casta Esteban, his physician’s daughter. A marriage, unexpected that, as Bécquer had told me, ended in separation.

  I read on, devouring any information I found about him. And so I learned that Bécquer died in 1870 — stopped being human, that is. Before dying, he asked his friends to burn his letters, and publish his poems and stories because he was certain, he told them, he would be better known after his death than he had been in life. A presumption that turned out to be true. A presumption he could well make come true if, as an immortal, he supervised the success of his published work.

  After a while all the information I found repeated these bare facts. I stopped reading and ordered all the biographies I could find about Bécquer, including one written by one of his friends and another by Julia, Valeriano’s daughter, named after Julia Espin, the beautiful girl who broke Bécquer’s heart and inspired his achingly beautiful poems of unrequited love.

  I wrote nothing that first morning, which bothered me. My first book, a medieval fantasy — not surprising, considering I taught Medieval History at a private college — had taken me two years to write. When I finished my second book two years after that and realized that the end was not an ending but the beginning of a new story, I’d decided to take a sabbatical to finish my third book, for I was beyond tired of writing in stolen moments. My sabbatical had started in July; we were in November now. I had no time to waste.

  What was even more frustrating was that, although my dream of getting successfully published was within my reach now that Bécquer was my agent, knowing he was immortal had stolen all pleasure from my accomplishment. Not to mention the fact that my infatuation with him was making it impossible for me to concentrate on my writing.

&n
bsp; Still, I persevered. But after two days of wasting time rereading Bécquer’s Rhymes and Legends, or daydreaming in front of an empty screen, I gave up on writing my novel. Instead, I started an account of my encounter with Bécquer and the impossible events that followed.

  I was aware that publishers take months to read a manuscript, yet knowing Bécquer’s powers of persuasion, I was not surprised when a week after our meeting in Café Vienna, he contacted me by e-mail.

  Two of the editors who had read my novel were interested, he explained. One of them was, as I’d expected, Richard Malick, the editor impersonating Lord Byron I had met at Bécquer’s party. Bécquer attached the two proposals and discussed the pros and cons of the two offers and the reasons he recommended I sign with Richard.

  Finding no fault with his decision, I wrote him back agreeing to his suggestion.

  His next e-mail was short and to the point.

  Dear Carla,

  Richard will be at my house this Saturday for the purpose of signing your book contract. Would you kindly join us here at 3 P.M.?

  As we discussed, this will terminate my representation of your work.

  Sincerely yours,

  Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

  Although it was my understanding that most contracts are signed by mail, his tone, courteous and professional, gave me no reason to refuse his request. But my trust of his word was not the only reason I accepted. The truth was I wanted to see him.

  His hold on me had increased, not decreased, as the week passed. Several times, I found myself driving toward his house while running an errand, or after dropping Madison at school or at one of her friend’s house. I had always stopped in time and turned around. I couldn’t start to imagine my embarrassment had I made it close enough for Bécquer to sense me and my pathetic crush. For crush was the only word to describe this yearning for a person I had met only four times. And having a crush at my age was ridiculous. Crushes were for teenagers, not for mothers of teens.