by Brian Lumley
He sat up, stretched, swung his feet down to the floor. The owner of the eyes curtsied peasant fashion — inelegantly, Dragosani thought. He sneered at her. Rising from sleep, he was always testy; waking before his time, as by an intrusion, like now, he was especially so.
‘Are you deaf?’ he stretched again, pointed directly at her nose. ‘I said who are you? Also, why have I been allowed to sleep so late?’ (He could also be contrary.)
His rigidly pointing finger didn’t seem to impress her at all. She smiled, one eyebrow arching delicately, almost insolently. Tm Use, Herr Dragosani. Use Kinkovsi. You’ve been asleep for three hours. Since you were obviously very tired, my father said I should leave you sleeping and prepare your room in the garret. That has been done.’
‘Oh? So? And what do you want of me now?’ Drago sani refused to be gracious. And this wasn’t the same game he’d played with her father; no, for there was that about her which genuinely irritated him. She was far too self-assured, too knowing, for one thing. And for another she was pretty. She must be, oh… twenty? It was odd she wasn’t married, but there was no ring on her finger.
Dragosani shivered, his metabolism adjusting, not yet fully awake. She saw it, said: ‘It’s warmer upstairs.
The sun is still on the top of the house. Climbing the stairs will get your blood going.’
Dragosani looked about the room, used his delicate fingertips to brush the crusts of sleep from the corners of his eyes. He stood up, patted the pocket of his jacket where it hung over the back of the chair. * Where are my keys? And… my cases?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded, smiling again, ‘my father has taken your cases up for you. Here are your keys.’ When her hand touched his it was cool, his was suddenly feverish. And this time when he shivered she laughed. ‘Ah! A virgin!’
‘What?’ Dragosani hissed, probably giving himself away completely. ‘What — did — you — say?’
She turned towards the door, walked out into the hall and towards the stairs. Dragosani, furious, snatched up his coat and followed her. At the foot of the wooden stairs she looked back. ‘It’s a saying hereabouts. It’s just a saying…’
‘What is?’ he snapped, following her up the stairs.
‘Why, that when a boy shivers when he’s hot, it’s because he’s a virgin. A reluctant virgin!’
‘A bloody stupid saying!’ Dragosani scowled.
She looked back and smiled. ‘With you it doesn’t apply, Herr Dragosani,’ she said. ‘You are not a boy, and you don’t look at all shy or virginal to me. And anyway, it’s just a saying.’
‘And you are too familiar with your guests!’ he grumbled, feeling that he’d been let off the hook, as if she’d taken pity on him.
|| On the first landing she waited for him, laughed and $aid: ‘I was being friendly. It’s a cold greeting when people don’t talk to each other. My father told me to ask you: will you eat with us tonight, since you’re the only one here, or will you have a meal in your room?’
I’ll eat in my room,’ he growled at once. ‘If we ever get to it!’
She shrugged, turned and started up the second flight. Here the stairs climbed more steeply.
Use Kinkovsi was dressed in a fashion quite out of date in the towns but still affected in the smaller villages and farming communities. She wore a slightly longer than knee-length pleated cotton dress, gathered in tightly at the waist, a short-sleeved black bodice buttoned down the front, with puffs at the shoulders and elbows, and (ridiculously, as Dragosani thought) calf-boots of rubber; but doubtless they were fine in the farmyard. In winter she would also wear stockings to the tops of her thighs. But it was not winter…
He tried to avert his eyes but there was nowhere else to look. And, damn it, she flounced! A narrow black ‘V separated the swivelling white globes of her buttocks.
At the second landing she paused, deliberately turned to wait for him at the head of the stairs. Dragosani stopped dead in his tracks, held his breath. Looking down at him — and looking as cool as ever — she leaned her weight on one foot more than the other, rubbed at the inside of her thigh with her knee, flashed her green eyes at him. Tm sure you’ll like it… here,’ she said, and slowly shifted her weight to the other foot.
Dragosani looked away. ‘Yes, yes — I’m sure I… I
Use took note of the fine film of sweat on his brow. She turned her face away and sniffed. Perhaps she had been right about him in the first place. A pity…
Chapter Five
Without any more delay, Use Kinkovsi now took Dragosani straight to the garret, showed him the bathroom (which, surprisingly, was quite modern) and made as if to leave. The rooms were very pretty: whitewash and old oak beams, with varnished wooden corner cupboards and shelves, and Dragosani was beginning to feel much better about things. As the heat went out of the girl, so he warmed a little towards her — or more properly towards the as yet unseen Kinkovsi family in its entirety. It would be extremely gauche of him to eat here, alone in his room, after the Kinkovsis, father and daughter both, had shown him such hospitality.
‘Use,’ he called after her on impulse. ‘Er — Miss Kinkovsi — I’ve changed my mind. I would like to eat at the farm, yes. Actually, I lived on a farm when I was a boy. It won’t be strange to me — and I’ll try not to be too strange to the family. So… when do we eat?’
Descending the stairs she looked back over her shoulder. ‘As soon as you can wash and come down. We’re waiting for you.’ There was no smile on her face now.
‘Ah! — then I’ll be two minutes. Thank you.’
As her footsteps on the stairs faded into silence, he quickly took off his shirt, snapped open one of his cases and found shaving gear, towel, clean, pressed trousers and new socks. Ten minutes later he hurried downstairs, out of the guesthouse, and was met by Kinkovsi at the farmhouse door.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ he said. ‘I hurried as fast as I could.’
‘No matter,’ the other took his hand. ‘Welcome to my house, please enter. We’ll eat at once.’
Inside, it was just a little claustrophobic. The rooms were large but low-ceilinged, and the decor was dark and very ‘old’ Romanian. In the dining-room, at a huge square deal table which could have seated a dozen easily, Dragosani found himself with a side of his own, facing a window. The light was such that the face of Use, who, after she had helped her mother serve, sat opposite, was set in a vague semi-silhouette. To Dragosani’s right sat Hzak Kinkovsi, with his wife when her duties were done, and to his left two sons of maybe twelve and sixteen years respectively. A small family by farming community standards.
The meal was simple, abundant, deserving of an accol ade. Dragosani said as much and Use smiled, while her mother Maura beamed delightedly across the table at him, saying: ‘I thought you would be hungry. Such a long journey! All the way from Moscow. How long did it take you?’
‘Oh, well I did stop to eat,’ he answered, smiling. And then, remembering, he frowned. ‘I ate twice, and both meals were unsatisfactory and very expensive! I even slept for an hour or two, in the car, just this side of Kiev. And of course I came via Galatz, Bucharest and Pitesti, chiefly to avoid the mountain passes.’
4 A long way, yes,’ Hzak Kinkovsi nodded. ‘Sixteen hundred kilometres.’
‘As the crow flies,’ said Dragosani. ‘But I’m not a crow! More than two thousand kilometres, according to my car’s instruments.’
‘And all this way just to study a little local history,’ the farmer shook his head.
They had finished their meal now. The old boy (not really old, more weathered than withered) sat back with a clay-pipeful of fragrant tobacco; Dragosani lit a Roth-mans, one of a pack of two hundred Borowitz had purchased for him back in Moscow at a ‘special’ store for the party elite; the two boys left to tend to evening chores, and the women went off to wash dishes.
Kinkovsi’s remark about ‘local history’ had taken Dra gosani a little by surprise, until he remembered that was his assumed reason f
or being here. Drawing on his cigarette, he wondered how much he dare say. On the other hand, he was also supposed to be a mortician; perhaps it would not seem too strange if his inclinations ran altogether morbid.
‘Local history in a way, yes — but I might just as easily have gone into Hungary, or cut short my journey in Moldavia, or gone on across the Alps to Oradea. Or Yugoslavia for that matter, or as far east as Mongolia. They all hold a common interest for me, but more so here for this is my birthplace.’
‘And what is this interest, then? Is it the mountains? Or perhaps the battles, eh? My God — this country has known some fighting!’ Kinkovsi was not merely polite but genuinely interested. He poured more farm-brewed wine (made from local grapes and quite excellent) into Dragos ani’s glass and topped up his own.
The mountains are part of it, I suppose,’ the younger man answered. ‘And in this part of the world, the battles, certainly. But the legend in its entirety is far older than any history we can hope to remember. It’s possibly as old as the hills themselves. A very mysterious thing — and very horrible!’
He leaned across the table, stared fixedly into Kin kovsi’s watery eyes.
‘Well, go on, don’t keep me in suspense! What is this mysterious passion, this ancient quest of yours?’
The wine was very heady and had robbed Dragosani of most of his natural caution. Outside, the sun had gone down and dusk lay everywhere like a mantle of blue smoke. From the kitchen came the clinking of dishes and soft, muted voices. In another room, an old clock ticked throatily. It was the perfect setting. And these country folk being so superstitious and all -
Dragosani couldn’t resist it. The legend of which I speak,’ he said, slowly and distinctly, ‘is that of the vampir!’
For a moment Kinkovsi said nothing, looked stunned. And then he rocked back in his chair, roared with laughter and slapped his thigh. ‘Hah! — the vampir — I should have known it! Every year there are more of you, and all looking for Dracula!’
Dragosani sat astounded. He was not sure what reaction he’d expected, but certainly it was not this. ‘More of us?’ he said. ‘Every year? I’m not sure I understand…’
‘Why, now that the restrictions have been relaxed,’ Kinkovsi explained. ‘Now that your precious “iron cur tain” has been opened up a little! They come from America, from England and France, even one or two from Germany. Curious tourists, mainly — but at other times learned men and scholars. And all of them hunting this same lie of a “legend”. What? Why, I’ve pulled a dozen legs here in this very room, by pretending to be afraid of this… this “Dracula”. But what fools! Surely everyone knows — even “ignorant peasants” like myself — that the creature is only a character in a story by a clever Englishman, written at the turn of the century? Yes, and not more than a month ago there was a film of the same title at the picture house in town. Oh, you can’t fool me, Dragosani. Why, it wouldn’t surprise me at all to discover that you’re here as a guide for my English party. They’re due in on Friday. And yes, they too are searching for the big bad vampir!’
‘Scholars, you say?’ Dragosani fought hard to hide his confusion. ‘Learned men?’
Kinkovsi stood up, switched on the dim electric light where it hung in a battered lampshade from the centre of the ceiling. He sucked at his pipe and got it going again. ‘Scholars, yes — professors from Koln, Bucharest, Paris. For the last three years. All armed with their notebooks, photocopies of mouldy old maps and documents, their cameras and sketchbooks and — oh, all sorts of paraphernalia!’
Dragosani had recovered himself. ‘And their cheque books, too, eh?’ he feigned a knowing smile. Again Kinkovsi roared. ‘Oh, yes, of course! Their money, too. Why, I’ve heard that up in the mountain passes there are little village shops which actually sell tiny glass bottles of earth from this Dracula’s castle! My god! Can you believe it? It’ll be Frankenstein next! I’ve seen him on film, too, and he’s really frightening!’ Now the younger man began to feel angry. Irrationally, he felt himself to be the butt of Kinkovsi’s joke. So the snag-toothed simpleton didn’t believe in vampires; they made him roar with laughter; they were like the Yeti or the Loch Ness Monster: tourist attractions born out of myths and old wives’ tales…”?
… And right there and then Dragosani made himself a promise that -
‘What’s all this talk about monsters?’ Maura Kinkovsi came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. ‘You be careful, Hzak! Mind how you speak of the devil. And you, Herr Dragosani. There are still things in the lonely places that people don’t understand.’ ‘What lonely places, woman?’ her husband chuckled.
‘Here’s a man come down from Moscow in little more than a day — a journey which once would have taken a week and more — and you talk about lonely places? There’s no room for lonely places any more!’
Oh, but there is, Dragosani thought. It’s a terribly lonely place in your grave. I’ve felt it in them: a loneliness they don’t even know is there — until they waken to my touch!
‘You know what I mean!’ Kinkovsi’s wife snapped. ‘It’s rumoured that in the mountains there are still villages where they yet put stakes through the hearts of people taken too young or dead from no obvious cause — to make sure they don’t come back. And no one thinks ill of it.’ (this last to Dragosani) ‘It’s just custom, so to speak, like doffing your hat to a funeral procession.’
Now Use also appeared. ‘What? And are you a vampir-hunter, too, Herr Dragosani? But what a dark, morbid lot they are! Surely you can’t be one of them?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Dragosani’s feigned smile was fixed now, frozen on his face. ‘I was just having a laugh with your father, that’s all. But my joke seems to have backfired.’ He stood up.
‘Eh?’ said Kinkovsi, obviously disappointed. ‘Early night, is it? I suppose you’re still tired. Pity, I was looking forward to talking to you. Never mind, I’ve jobs a-plenty to get on with. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘Oh, we’ll find time for talking, I’m sure,’ said Drago sani as he followed his host to the door.
‘Use,’ said Kinkovsi, ‘take a torch and see the Herr to the guesthouse, will you? The dusk is worse than darkest midnight when you’re not sure of your step.’
The girl did as she was told and guided Dragosani across the farmyard, out of the gate and into the guesthouse. There she switched on the lights for the stairs. Before saying goodnight, she told him:
‘Herr Dragosani, there is a button beside your bed. If you require anything in the night just press it. Unfortu nately, it will probably wake up my parents, too. A better way would be to open your curtains half-way — which I would see from my own bedroom window…’
‘What?’ said Dragosani, pretending to be slow on the uptake. ‘In the middle of the night?’
But as to her meaning, Use Kinkovsi left little doubt of that. ‘I don’t sleep very well,’ she said. ‘My room is on the ground floor. I like to open my window and smell the night air. Sometimes I even go out that way and walk in the silver moonlight — usually about 1:00 a.m.’
Dragosani nodded his head but made no answer. She was standing very close to him. Before she could further clarify the situation he turned away from her and hurried up the stairs. He could feel her mocking eyes on him until he turned the corner onto the first landing.
In his room Dragosani quickly closed the curtains at the window, unpacked his cases, ran himself a bath full of water. Heated by a gas jet, the water steamed invitingly. Adding salts, Dragosani stripped himself naked. In the bath he lay and soaked, luxuriating in the heat
and languid swirl of the water when he moved his arms. I n what seemed a very short while he found himself nodding, his chin on his chest, the water growing cold.
Stirring himself, he finished bathing and prepared for bed. It was only 10:00 p.m. when he slipped between the sheets, but within a minute or two he was fast asleep.
Just before midnight he woke up, saw a vertical white band of moonlight, dee
p and inches wide, like a luminous shaft, streaming into the room where the curtains missed coming together. Remembering what Use Kinkovsi had said, he got up, took a safety pin and firmly pinned the
curtains shut. He half-wished it could be different — more than half-but… it couldn’t.
It wasn’t that he hated women or was frightened of them, he didn’t and wasn’t. It was more that he couldn’t understand them, and with so many other things to do — so much else to learn and try to understand — he simply had no time to waste on dubious or untried pleasures. Or so he told himself. And anyway, his needs were different to those of other men, his emotions less volatile. Except when he needed them to be. But what he’d lost in common sensuality, he more than made up for in uncommon sensitivity. Though even that would seem a paradox to anyone who knew his work.
As for those other things he had to learn or at least try to understand — they were legion. Borowitz was happy with him the way he was, yes, but Dragosani was not. He felt that at the moment his talent was one-dimensional, that it lacked any real depth. Very well, he would give it the very greatest depth, a depth unplumbed for half a millennium! Out there in the night lay one who had secrets unique, one who in life commanded monstrous magics, and who even now, in death, was undead. And there, for Dragosani, lay the fount of all knowledge. Only when he had drained that well would there be time for the rest of his sorely neglected ‘education’.
It was midnight now, the witching hour. Dragosani wondered how far the sleeper’s dreams reached out beyond the borders of the dark glade, wondered if they might meet half-way. The moon was up and full, and all the stars were bright; high in the mountains wolves prowled and howled even now, as they had five hundred years ago; all the auspices were right.