Immortal Love

by Carmen Ferreiro-Esteban

  “When her son was born, I recognized him as mine, out of shame perhaps, or as I wish to believe, out of concern for the baby who would have been shunned otherwise. So, in a way, I didn’t lie to you before because legally he was my son and later when he came to live with me, I loved him as such.”

  The warmth in his voice when he talked betrayed the strength of his feelings. I sighed deeply, relieved to learn he was not my ancestor for his love for this boy — who in that time long ago when he was human had caused him so much shame — had only increased my attraction to him.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  He shrugged. “Do you believe me now?”

  “So you knew about me and my children all these years. Why did you approach Ryan now?”

  “No, I didn’t know about you until recently. When I became immortal, I had to give up seeing my children. I followed them from afar over the years — my children and their children and their children’s children — making sure they were all right.

  “Then, for personal reasons, I left Spain in 1936, at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War. When I came back, years later, I couldn’t find my descendants anymore. That monstrous war had swallowed them, and erased all trace that I had ever been alive.”

  “My grandfather died in Madrid the first year of the war,” I explained to him. “My grandmother moved north after it ended, with their son, my father. That’s why you couldn’t find him.”

  “I know. I ran a search on you.” He smiled his disarming smile as I glowered at him. “Don’t get upset. I read your book first then got curious about you, a Spaniard whose last name was Esteban. Could it be we were related?”

  “But your last name is — ”

  “Dominguez, actually, not Bécquer. But Emilio took his mother’s name, Esteban, when he was of age after he learned the truth about his birth, I guess.

  “You are his descendant. I had no doubt,” Bécquer continued. “And when I learned you had a son, I had to meet him.”

  “I have a daughter too.”

  A fleeting smile played on his lips. “I don’t do so well with girls.”

  I was about to give him some feminist speech about his blatant misogyny when I remembered Madison’s moody behavior of late and let it pass. I wasn’t doing well with girls these days either.

  “How did you meet Ryan?” I asked him instead.

  “I arranged to give a talk at his college and approached him afterward. When I discovered he played guitar, I told him to call me for I knew Matt’s band was looking for a new member. He called a week later and I invited him to come over to meet Matt.”

  “You gave him your card?”

  Bécquer stared at me. “Probably. Why?”

  “I found it in his pocket today.”

  “He’s not using.”

  “How did you know — ?” I stopped as I realized that, like Federico, Bécquer was reading my mind, or whatever it was immortals did. I glared at him.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “Then don’t.”

  He shrugged. “You don’t have to worry about Ryan. He’s clean. You must be proud of him. It’s hard to give up an addiction. Believe me, I know.”

  He got up. “Now that everything has been clarified between us, let’s go. Whether I want it or not, I have a party to host. Which reminds me … ”

  He was gone and back so fast that, but for the mask he held now in his hands, I wouldn’t have noticed he had moved at all.

  I stood and examined the mask, a delicate piece of art made of ivory silk with colorful feathers.

  “Don’t you like it?” Bécquer asked, as I hesitated to pick it up.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Again he smiled, the smile of a child pleased with himself. “Federico bought it for me last year when he was in Venice.”

  He talked about Federico affectionately as if he had already forgotten his friend had just stomped out of the room, threatening to leave at once. When I mentioned this to him, he shook his head. “He won’t leave. He’s with Matt.” And for the way he said it, as a fact, I understood he was feeling his mind. Did he know, I wondered, of Matt’s attraction to Federico? But, of course, he must.

  “Shouldn’t you apologize to him?”

  “Apologize to him?” Bécquer repeated, his eyes glowing red. “How can you suggest such a thing? He was the one who insulted me. He accused me of perverting Ryan — ”

  “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”

  “And spoil his fun? Federico enjoys thinking the worst of me.”

  “That’s not true. He worships you.”

  “I wish he didn’t. I am no god. Thus, no matter what I do, he’s bound to be disappointed.”

  “I think you like him to worship you. Or you would have put an end to his infatuation long ago.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried?”

  “Obviously not hard enough.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Stop playing games with him, Bécquer. If you really want Federico to forget you, you must treat him like your equal. Tell him the truth.”

  “I will eventually.”

  “Do it now. Mind to mind.”

  “Even if I did, he won’t believe me because he would sense I’m hiding something from him. Which I am. But what I’m hiding is a surprise for him, not an ugly secret of mine. I’m hiding that I taught Matt and Ryan to play some of his poems set to song, and they’re going to perform them tonight.

  “So you see why I have the right to be resentful of him? I plan a concert in his honor, and he pays me back by throwing wild accusations at me.”

  “You care what he thinks,” I said, for the eagerness of his discourse suggested he was genuinely hurt.

  “You seem surprised. I see. Federico has convinced you that I’m a monster. It’s useless. No matter what I do, Federico will never forgive me.”

  “He has forgiven you long ago. It’s forgetting he has trouble with.”

  Bécquer looked away.

  “We must go,” he said, “the guests are waiting. And I want you to meet Richard Malick. He’s interested in your manuscript.”

  He offered me his arm, but I hesitated. I don’t like parties. Parties are full of people. I like people in small doses. Not all at once. And, if facing a room full of strangers was enough to send me into a panic, talking with a publisher, even if that was the main reason I had come to the party, made my knees grow weak.

  “Are you all right?” Bécquer asked.

  I breathed in. “Yes.”

  “You don’t seem all right to me. And you just fainted. Why?”

  “I … Federico cut himself. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  Bécquer frowned, and stared at me, his face expressionless, his eyes as dark as unfathomable wells. As I stared back, his lips parted, to reveal white flashing teeth. For a moment, his canines, longer than what seemed normal, rested on his lower lip.

  I didn’t see him move, yet he must have, because his body was close to mine, his hands cupped my face, and his lips were on my lips, pressing them open. Over the familiar scent of lemon and cinnamon that was his, I felt the salty taste of blood and in my mind I heard his words: “Take it. You must take it.”

  As he spoke, I felt a pressure in my mind and images formed unbidden: a woman dressed in white sitting by a fountain; a young actress declaiming her lines on stage; a baby in a laced gown; an abbey — its bells ringing — outlined against the background of a solitary mountain; an angry mob burning a horse-drawn carriage while the horses reared, neighing in panic; the face of a woman, beautiful and pale, smiling with blood stained lips.

  “Better now?”

  Bécquer’s voice intruded in my mind and the visions disappeared. I looked around. I was still sitting on the sofa, and Bécquer was staring down at me, his perfect features set into a mask.

  “What have you done to me?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  I checked with my ton
gue and found no wound inside my mouth to justify the taste of blood my mind still remembered. So the blood had not been mine.

  “You gave me your blood.”

  He shrugged. “Only a couple of drops. Just enough to solve your problem.”

  “I didn’t know I had a problem.”

  “You just told me you faint at the sight of blood. And I couldn’t help but notice you were terrified of joining the party. Now, you won’t be.”

  “Have you changed me?” I asked, my voice higher than I had intended.

  “No. Of course not. You would need a lot more of my blood for that. I gave you enough to make you stronger.”

  “How wonderful. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Bécquer gave me a crooked smile. “A kiss will do.”

  “I was being sarcastic, Bécquer. Don’t you get it? This is exactly what I was trying to explain to you before. You manipulate Federico, and everybody else, for all I know. You assume what people want and give it to them. Then get upset when they are not overjoyed by your interference.”

  “I meant it as a gift.”

  “Maybe. But even if your intentions are good, it is not all right to force your will on others. I didn’t ask for this ‘gift.’”

  “All my lovers beg me to give them my blood. I thought you’d want it too.”

  “I’m not one of your lovers.”

  Bécquer looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I see what you mean. I … I would take it back. But I can’t. The effect of my blood won’t last long, though, and I promise, I will ask next time.”

  “You don’t have to ask next time for the answer is no. I don’t want your blood. I don’t want to be like you. In fact, I wish — ”

  I wish I had never met you, I was about to say, but stopped because I didn’t want to offend him. Besides it wasn’t totally true. Although I’d rather not know there were immortal beings among us with powers to control humans’ minds, this ancient yet childish god who had just kissed me like a lover also fascinated me. And I hoped he had learned his lesson and was not sensing my feelings, because just then, I wanted nothing better than his lips against my lips and his arms around my body. A stupid wish I knew I must stop at once.

  I stood up. “I wish we would stop wasting time and join the party,” I said a little too loudly.

  If Bécquer was surprised at my sudden change of the conversation, he hid it well, for he just smiled and, already on his feet, offered me his arm. “Of course, my lady. Your wish is my command.”

  I took his arm.

  Chapter Seven: The Party

  Bécquer stopped by the wrought iron balustrade overlooking the ballroom and turned to me.

  “Do you think you can take them?” he asked.

  I looked down through the slits of the Venetian mask Bécquer had just adjusted for me. The room was big, bigger than I had thought when I spied it from the front door, and it was crowded.

  Under the wheel-shaped chandelier hanging from a central beam, men dressed in suits of bygone eras and women in long evening gowns stood in small groups, gathered around the central island getting their drinks, or sat on the sofas that hugged the walls. But for the raised platform at the back of the room that supported the piano, there was no empty space on the whole floor.

  My guess was that close to one hundred people were there. More than enough to send me into a frenzy any other day. But not today. For the first time ever I didn’t feel like fleeing because I could sense their minds — I sensed their hopes, their uncertainties and their fears — as if I stood at the edge of their awareness. And thus, I knew that the crowd was not, as I had often imagined, an all-powerful beast ready to devour me, but made of individual human beings as flawed as I was. As I used to be. Because right then, high on Bécquer’s immortal blood, I felt invincible.

  I could take them, as Bécquer had put it. Even more, I was eager to meet them, to learn their stories and even discuss with them the ones I carried, still unfinished, in my mind.

  An unbidden smile came to my lips. “Yes,” I said.

  Bécquer bent his head toward me. “So you’re not mad at me anymore?” he whispered and, when I said I wasn’t, he took my arm again. “Let’s go, then.”

  We were halfway down the wide staircase when I spotted Beatriz. I recognized her by the blue shawl that barely covered her naked shoulders. She was talking to a man with a trimmed mustache and a goatee that looked too out of style to be real. As I watched her, Beatriz raised her head and her eyes met mine. I felt the ice of her stare, almost a physical touch that halted my step.

  Bécquer groaned and stopped by my side. “Sorry, Carla. I was hoping to blend in unnoticed. Too late now.”

  As he spoke, Beatriz detached herself from the gentleman and brazenly pushed her way toward the stairs, the brouhaha of conversation ebbed in her wake, and heads turned to follow her, until everybody in the room was staring at us in expectant silence.

  Basking in his guests’ recognition and with the ease of a medieval king certain of his subjects’ loyalty, Bécquer addressed the room.

  “Dear friends, please help me welcome my new author, Carla Esteban.”

  He waited for the applause to subside then led me downstairs.

  I felt the soothing comfort that emanated from his mind, spreading like a wave over the crowd, urging them to mingle, so that by the time we reached the floor the party had resumed in earnest. But Beatriz did not move.

  “Where have you been?” she asked of Bécquer, her sharp voice belying the smile that curled her lips. “The guests were getting impatient.”

  “You honor me, Beatriz, to suggest anybody would notice my absence.”

  Ignoring Bécquer’s beguiling smile, Beatriz looked up to the staircase behind us. “Where is Federico?” she asked. “He’s scheduled to play in five minutes.”

  “Oh, yes! Federico. Right,” Bécquer said lightly. “I’m afraid he won’t be playing tonight.”

  “Really, Gustavo,” Beatriz said, and by addressing him by his given name she suggested a familiarity that excluded me. “Couldn’t you have waited to antagonize Federico until the party was over?”

  She produced a cell phone as she spoke and started punching numbers.

  In a flash, Bécquer’s arm shot forward and the phone was in his hand.

  “You can’t ask Matt to cover for him. He’s practicing now for his performance.”

  There was such finality in his voice that Beatriz didn’t argue.

  Still holding her phone out of her reach, Bécquer scanned the crowd. Soon a playful smile lit his face. “Ask Sheryl to play for us,” he told Beatriz. “I’m sure she won’t mind.”

  I followed his stare and noticed a red-haired woman holding a glass in her ringed hand while listening attentively to a middle-aged man whose crazy hair and overgrown moustache reminded me of Mark Twain.

  “Sheryl is busy right now,” Beatriz said. “You can’t expect her to entertain your guests.”

  “Actually you will have her eternal gratitude if you were to interrupt her, for she would like nothing better than to get away from her present partner. She is only with him because her boss asked her to do so.”

  Although nothing about the perfectly made-up face of the woman betrayed her annoyance, I knew, thanks to my new awareness, that Bécquer was right.

  Bécquer caught my eye as I looked back and winked at me. Beatriz was not pleased. “What is it with you, Bécquer? Why is everything a joke to you?”

  “My dear Beatriz, I assure you that is far from the case, but taking the world too seriously doesn’t make it a better place.”

  With a flourish, Bécquer handed Beatriz back her phone. “And now, if you’ll excuse us. I must introduce Carla to Richard. Judging by his last e-mail, he’s very much interested in her novel.”

  Beatriz glanced at me, her pale blue eyes cold and dismissive. I was glad for the mask that hid my features for I was certain my dislike of her was written on my face. I could read the ha
te on hers, as plainly as if I had sensed it in her mind. Which I hadn’t. For, unlike my experience with the woman Sheryl, I couldn’t read her mind. Federico hadn’t either. Why? I wondered. Why was Beatriz different?

  “I agree he’s interested,” Beatriz was saying to Bécquer. “It’s with the subject of his interest I disagree.”

  “Really, Beatriz. Who is the cynic now?”

  “What is her problem?” I asked Bécquer as he led me through the crowd.

  She’s jealous of you, Bécquer said, although he didn’t really, because at the same time he was talking with one of his guests, shaking a young man’s hand, bowing to a pretty woman with an ample bosom barely concealed by her low-cut dress, then moving past them, he complimented a tall gentleman on his attire, and kissed the gloved hand of his lady. So, really, he couldn’t be talking to me. Yet his voice was in my head explaining Beatriz was upset with him because she had noticed he liked me.

  You like me? The question formed in my mind before I could stop it. Embarrassed, I turned my head away to hide my blushing.

  Bécquer laughed but didn’t answer for just then we had reached the back of the room where a man in his thirties was leaning against the wall, a glass in his hand.

  “Richard,” Bécquer said.

  The man fixed his kohl-enhanced stare on Bécquer. “Bécquer, at last,” he said, his husky voice creating an intimacy that excluded everybody else. But Bécquer, his arm still on mine, nodded to him briefly and introduced me.

  Limping slightly, Mr. Malick detached himself from the wall and bowed to me. “Enchanté,” he said.

  “The pleasure is mine.”

  “Getting into character, are we?” Bécquer asked him.

  The man smiled, drinking Bécquer in with his stare. “Not everybody can pull Dorian Gray without make-up.”

  “I meant the limp,” Bécquer said.

  “Of course.” Mr. Malick turned to me. “Lord Byron,” he explained pointing at his flowing robes that consisted on the loose shirt and pants the Greek nationalists wore in the nineteenth century. “He had a congenital limp, the good lord. Mine is only temporary.”

  Bécquer frowned. “You mean it’s real?”