Midnight Brunch

by Marta Acosta

  “Yeah, I’m producing, mostly actioners.” He named several movies, and some sounded familiar. “It’s me in the middle of all the University of Second Best dudes.”

  We shared a superior F.U. chuckle over the nickname for USB, a rival private university. “I wrote a few spec scripts,” I said. “I couldn’t get past the D-girls.”

  Skip flicked his fingers in a disdainful gesture. “Spec scripts are useless. You’ve got to know someone and set up a pitch meeting before bothering to write anything more than a treatment.”

  “Well, now I know you,” I said.

  “Yeah, now you know me.” Skip gave me a long look and said, “You and Beckett-Witherspoon were kind of an odd couple, weren’t you?”

  “We weren’t a couple. But if you mean it was all Love Story or The Way We Were, because he was WASP and rich and establishment, and I was the wacky ethnic scholarship girl, then yes, we were an odd couple.”

  Skip laughed. “You’re funny.”

  We chatted about our time at F.U., and how much we liked all the movies shown on campus. We discussed Hitchcock, Fellini, French New Wave, Wertmüller, and noir. I bemoaned the lack of women directors and a female sensibility in film, and he mused about Japanese sci-fi movies of the fifties and sixties. “Gojira was a political creature, and the movie was an allegory for the destruction of World War Two,” he said. “They changed the movie’s name to Godzilla, dubbed it, and lost the powerful symbolism.”

  I stared at him in wonderment. “You don’t know how amazing it is to hear that. My last piece, two novellas, was inspired by Frankenstein and the political messages in Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s writings. One novella is about man’s attempt to create life and beauty, but he creates a hideous creature that he disowns. The creature is alone in the world, yet sentient. What is the creature to make of this rejection? Who is the real monster?”

  “Sounds really amazing,” Skip said. “Here”—he pulled out a business card with his name and a Los Angeles address—“I’d like to look at your stuff if you want to send something to me.”

  “I’d love to.” I took a pen from my bag and scribbled on a napkin. “This is my phone number in case you hear of anyone looking for my type of work.”

  Skip folded the napkin, put it in his pocket, and stood. “I gotta run. I’m having nothing but headaches because the idiot screenwriter turned in an unworkable script and refuses to do a rewrite. Great talking to you, Milagro. Let’s keep in touch.”

  I felt exhilarated by both the conversation and having made a real connection with a producer. I was so elated that I temporarily forgot my problems. My stomach cramped oddly. I needed some food and had a yearning for a really rare, juicy burger.

  And then I thought, oh no.

  You didn’t have to be an F.U. alumna to realize that a yen for rawish burger was bad news to anyone who’d been in recent contact with a vampire’s bodily fluids. I walked to an underground metro station and took the train to a stop close to a supermarket.

  I walked past the deli to the meat department. I selected a ribeye steak, glistening dark red and moist behind cellophane wrapping, and tried to be disgusted instead of excited. I wanted to tear open the package and suck every drop of blood from the meat, but even in a city that was blasé about gangland murders, this type of behavior was considered uncouth.

  I hailed a cab because I felt too uneasy about walking back to Mercedes’s. When we arrived, I asked the driver not to leave until I was safely behind the front door. After looking around and seeing no one, I slowly got out of the cab and ran up the steps of the house. The driver sped off, and I shakily opened the door, rushed in, and slammed it behind me. I locked it and tested the lock.

  Only then did I go up to Mercedes’s flat. I tore a corner of the package of meat and then lifted the package to my mouth and drank the red fluid, enjoying the delightful mineral earthiness. When I’d drained the liquid from the package, I tore the rest of the wrapping off and licked the steak and the Styrofoam tray.

  I thought I’d come to terms with vampirism, but I didn’t want to be one of Them. If that is what I was.

  Did that mean that I hadn’t truly accepted them? Could it be that I harbored ignorant prejudices? And I wondered what unspoken prejudices Oswald might have about me, other than his unfair assessment that I was a pain in the butt. I considered these ugly thoughts as I chewed on a corner of the raw steak.

  I tried to read but found myself staring at the pages without comprehension. I kept thinking about monsters born and monsters created by circumstance. I wanted to believe in redemption, not only for the beautiful, dissolute Sebastian of Brideshead Revisited, but for people like SLIME, for Frankenstein’s monster, and maybe even for my mother Regina.

  I thought that there was a connection between the monster books and Brideshead, a lesson for me if I could find it. Before I could let these ideas marinate, the doorbell rang. I went downstairs and peered through the peephole in the front door. I saw a delivery man with large packages.

  “Yes?” I shouted.

  “Delivery for Ochoa-McPherson.”

  I opened the door and signed for the boxes. They were from an expensive store that specialized in imported linens. I thought this a little out of character because Mercedes was usually very practical in her purchases.

  I called Mercedes and said, “Since when do you buy hoity-toity linens?”

  “I think you must have been hit on your cabeza yesterday. What are you talking about?”

  “You just got an express delivery of boxes. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “I didn’t order anything. Open them and see what they are.”

  Mercedes stayed on the line while I used a key to slash through the packing tape. Inside the box was a beautiful soft silk and down comforter, and a set of Egyptian cotton sheets. “It’s a comforter and sheet set,” I said. “We can safely assume that Ian sent them.”

  “He didn’t need to do that.”

  “It’s their culture. They’re very generous.” I told her about my exciting encounter with Skip and also that I’d be going out to meet Silas later.

  “Are you up to such a busy day?”

  I was still feeling content from my grotesque snack. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Silas phoned as promised and gave me the address of the club. “Memberss only,” he said, “sso please do not release the information. You understand how there are people who sstill want to harm uss.”

  I didn’t know if the club had a dress code, but I wore jeans, a T-shirt under a sweater, and sneakers. I felt less vulnerable out at night if I didn’t draw attention and was able to run. I decided not to carry a handbag and put my phone, money, and ID in my pocket.

  Before I left, I stood hidden behind the curtain of the window facing the street. I watched for five minutes to make sure that no one was lurking in the shadows or between parked cars. The cold bluish light of the sparsely spaced halogen streetlamps illuminated only small areas of sidewalk.

  However, my night vision, which had been excellent since my first infection, was even better now. A viejo walked a scruffy terrier and each of them was outlined with a delicate phosphorescent glow. I was fascinated by the creepy wonder of my new ability. Not that it balanced out the other side effects of my recent contamination.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called Ian. He didn’t answer so I left a polite message, the gist of which was “What the hell is happening to me?” Then I calmed myself and left the house. On the street, I threaded my keys between my fingers, the urban girl’s version of brass knuckles, and walked purposefully toward a busy street. An available cab was driving by just as I reached a large intersection, and I flagged it down.

  When I gave the cabbie the address, he said, “Nothing’s down there, is it?”

  “I’m meeting a friend,” I answered. There were only a few areas in the City that were still undeveloped because they were too violent, had toxic waste, or were caught in redevelopm
ent agency red tape. This desolate once industrial neighborhood fell into the last category.

  The cabbie slowed down on a block of dark buildings with boarded windows and stopped in front of a plain-fronted structure with a large metal door. I’d been to plenty of clubs in down-and-out locations, but this place looked incurably bleak and abandoned.

  The door opened partially and a sliver of light escaped. Then the door closed again, but at least I knew someone was in the building. My curiosity overcame my caution; I paid the cabbie and stepped out into the cold, gusty darkness.

  Nine

  Blood is the Drug

  S hards of broken glass on the sidewalk crunched beneath my shoes. Just as I raised my hand to knock, the door swung open and I had to step back to avoid being hit.

  A pasty string bean of a young man wearing a black Nehru jacket and loose trousers stared at me. “Private club,” he snapped, and began to close the door.

  I wanted to say, “Well, aren’t we special?” I kicked my foot in the door before it shut. “Silas Madison invited me.”

  “Oh, can you wait here?”

  “No, my cab is gone and I’m not standing out here on the street.” I pushed my way in and the string bean closed the metal door with a loud clang.

  I expected a dingy club with exposed pipes, concrete floors, and questionable conceptual art. Instead, the long, narrow room had a black carpet with an ivory deco leaf design, Pompeii red glazed walls, sparkling crystal sconces and chandeliers, gleaming black tables, and a sleek metal bar.

  On a small stage at the back, a trio played, and an exquisite chanteuse dressed in white tie and tails sang. She was as lovely as Marlene Dietrich, but had a much better voice. Her song, which was in German, could have been about daisies and bunnies or decay and termite damage. It didn’t matter to me because I thought she was fabulous.

  The pale customers wore chic but subdued clothes, the type a successful designer might wear: fabric and cut were more important than color and pattern. They drank clear pomegranate-colored drinks in martini glasses; brownish red drinks garnished with celery; and frothy fuchsia beverages in flutes.

  A few nonvamps, done up in black PVC, leather, and velvet and black eyeliner, sat beside the vamps. These were the thralls, a term which really annoyed me since it went against my egalitarian beliefs.

  There was an intricate game of role-playing between some vamps and people in the vamp Goth world. Vampires pretended to believe that they were the mythical undead creatures who slept in coffins, could only be killed with a stake through the heart or a silver bullet, and drank blood. Their thralls either went along with this game or believed it themselves.

  The thralls got their ya-yas serving the vamps, and the vamps got their ya-yas from having willing, if deluded, sources of human blood.

  Silas sat at a table set off to one side. He wore a black shirt buttoned to the neck and black slacks. Although he was alone in a social setting, he looked composed. I got the impression that all the other people in the club were aware of him. In front of Silas was a tall bottle of mineral water, a small carafe of red liquid nestled in a bucket of ice, and two wineglasses.

  When I walked over, Silas looked up and said, “Misss De Loss Santoss.” His smile lit up his pale face. He looked as pleased as a mouse that has figured out how to push the lever for food pellets.

  “Mr. Madison,” I said. He rose smoothly and pulled out a chair for me. In the busyness at the ranch, I hadn’t noticed his physical grace before.

  “I’m sso glad you could come. I realize a club issn’t the best place for a sserious talk, but I thought you might like thiss.”

  “It’s wonderful,” I said, and I meant it. “The singer is very talented, too.”

  “Do you share our taste? Would you like a drink?” Silas indicated the carafe. “Organic rabbit, very mild and relaxing.”

  Rabbit blood was the chamomile tea of the vamp world. I intended to say no, but when I opened my mouth “That would be fantastic” came out.

  Silas poured about a teaspoon of blood into each glass and filled them with mineral water. He handed me a glass and raised his own. “To our friendship, Misss De Loss Santoss.”

  We clinked glasses and sipped. The rabbit juice was delicate and herbaceous, nothing like Ian’s blood. “I didn’t know your people had clubs.”

  He smiled. “Only a few in the United States. We have more in Europe, South America, and Asia. My favorite is one on a beautiful beach in Thailand. It’s a relief to have a place to socialize where we can be ourselvess.”

  “So you don’t subscribe to Willem’s beliefs about the lower lands?”

  Silas gave a weary smile. “Poor Willem. He’s been expounding ideas that he sstudied and dismissed earlier in his career. I totally reject any system of beliefss that holdss one group of humans in less regard than another.”

  “I am relieved to hear you say that. I agree with you completely.” The drink was sending a delightful zing through me. I felt beyond urbane as I listened to the music, drank a decadent cocktail, and chatted with Silas. “Silas, I hope this isn’t too sensitive a question, but what do you call those of your kind?”

  He said a few words in the car-crash language and added, “That is the old term, which means children of the blood, because blood unites us.” He smiled. “But because no one can pronounce it and as it is a dead language, perhapss I misspronouce ass well. We call ourselves vampire.”

  “You don’t find the word offensive?”

  “Sometimes the victim embraces the epithet and attemptss to transform it. You are familiar with this tactic?”

  “Like bitch or the N-word?”

  “Yess, although I am not convinced that this doess more good than harm.” Silas frowned, then shook off his mood. “Enough talk of me. Tell me, has your visit to the City been pleasant? Did you enjoy the wedding?”

  “I did,” I said. “But I got mugged last night when I came home. Not me, exactly. I stepped in to stop a mugging.”

  “How astonishing!” Silas looked appropriately shocked. “Were you hurt? Wass anything stolen?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. If I admitted to the injury, I’d also have to admit to other physical changes. “I surprised the mugger and he ran off. It was probably more of an attempted carjacking than a mugging, because Ian had dropped me off and he was driving an expensive car.”

  “Was he hurt?”

  “Not a scratch. The whole incident has put a sour taste in my mouth, though, about living in the City.” I tipped my glass back to get the last few drops of my tasty cocktail.

  “You are an extraordinary young woman, so brave.”

  He made me feel brave and strong, instead of foolish and scared. But his praise embarrassed me, so I changed the subject. “Where did you meet Willem?”

  “I wass an army brat,” he said, and began refilling our glasses. “Although because of our condition, my father served in the military as a consultant. I sspent most of my youth on army basess, here and around the world. For that reasson, my speech ssounds a little different than mosst Americanss, doess it not?”

  “It does, but I like the way you speak.”

  “My mother made sure we contacted other family members, no matter where we went, sso we wouldn’t feel sso adrift. Willem was living near Sstuttgart when we first met.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He went back to Prague after visiting the Grants. Such an unfortunate end to a festive occasion!” He tut-tutted, which charmed me to no end.

  “Oswald’s parents were in Prague, too, last year,” I said. Odd that they hadn’t mentioned whether they’d seen or spent time with Willem there.

  “It is one of the great cities of the world,” he said. “Also, the real estate is fantastic.”

  Vampires were crazy about investing in real estate. From the recesses of my mind, I recalled Oswald’s father droning on about an apartment building that was undergoing a conversion. “Yes, that’s what I’ve heard. Mr. Madison, I’d love t
o learn more about your people’s history. My friends are rather reserved on the topic.”

  “That iss quite normal,” he said. “We have been persecuted for sso long that we’ve learned that ssilence is our best companion.” He refilled our glasses.

  “I understand, but I’ve been living with the Grants for a year now, and it’s very frustrating to have information withheld as if they don’t trust me.”

  “Misss De Loss Santoss, do not judge your friends too harshly. We are all bewildered by you.” He said it with a kind smile. “When you and Dr. Grant marry and have children, things will transform.”

  “We’re not at that stage in our relationship,” I said, wondering if we would ever be there. “Besides, having children…isn’t that a big risk?”

  “For the average person, but you are not the average person. There is some historical evidence that survivors of the infection had undiminished fertility.”

  “Really? But Winnie told me the opposite—that children born from intermarriages had a high mortality rate.”

  “That iss what we have always believed. However, I’ve discovered evidence that this sstory wass invented to discourage a vampire from even attempting intermarriage. Mosst sspousess would not survive beyond the honeymoon, sso it was important to stop all intermarriage—for the ssake of the partnerss.”

  I felt my heart lift. “That’s wonderful.”

  “In fact,” Silas said, leaning toward me, “there iss even a possibility that the children of vampire and nonvampire would have all the benefits of our condition without our photosensitivity.”

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to learn this.”

  The singer was taking a break, so there was lots of conversation to cover ours. Some of the thralls hurried to her side and they all went to the far end of the club, where a bulky man sat by a door. He rose and opened the door for them. When they went through it, he pulled it shut again.

  “What’s in the back?” I asked.

  “Hmm?” Silas followed my gaze. “The singer’ss dressing room. It iss only a storage room with a dressing table and mirror, but the thrallss will remodel it. It iss on their to-do list. They’ve just completed a meditation room, too.”