“There, there,” I comforted. “It was all just a bad dream. What makes you think it has anything to do with your mother?”
“I don’t know,” she said somberly. “It just set me to thinking, I guess. I know it was all just a bad dream, but somehow I can’t get it out of my mind that the dream meant something.”
“And what do you think it meant?”
“I think it means that when May Eve approaches, something’s going to happen.” She turned to me quickly. “Oh, I don’t think the people of Mayfair are going to run me out or anything. I just think I’m going to have to change, make a few decisions about what I’m going to have to do with my life. Perhaps I’ll meet that dark and ragged young man.” She gave a grisly chuckle.
“Well, I don’t think he’s the dark and ragged young man of your dreams, but we do have a house guest I’ve been meaning to tell you about.”
She regarded me inquisitively.
“He’s a young Italian gentleman named Niccolo Cavalanti, and he arrived very late a couple of evenings ago. I don’t know how long he’ll be staying with us, but I must warn you. We’re going to have to make some special allowances for him. He has a very unusual medical disorder, and is acutely sensitive to sunlight.”
“Will he be joining us at dinner?”
“I’m afraid not,” I explained. “Because of his medical disorder Signore Cavalanti requires a very special diet, and I’ll have to take care of all of his meals.”
“My goodness,” Ursula broke in, “what is wrong with this Signore Cavalanti?”
“He suffers from a rare disorder of the lymph system,” I said glibly. “The technical name for his condition is phototropic leucocythemia.” She pursed her brow and I wondered for a brief moment if she knew I was making the term up.
She nodded her head slowly. “How did you meet him?”
“I knew his father,” I continued. “The young man has come to London to visit a specialist, and I told him he could stay here until he found out whether he’s going to have to move to London permanently or not.”
“How very interesting,” Ursula murmured, and I could see a sparkle of interest in her dark eyes. “How old did you say this young man was?”
For some reason, even after I had lied so fluently, the question caught me completely off guard. I stood dumbfounded for several seconds.
“Why don’t you judge for yourself?” a voice said suddenly from the direction of the astrolabe. I looked up to see Niccolo standing there exactly as he had been standing when I had first set eyes on him. Once again he was an angel in the shadows of the garden. When I glanced at Ursula I was more than a little surprised to see she was completely cold and expressionless.
He swiftly crossed the courtyard and elegantly kissed her hand. “And you, I presume, are Signorina Gladstone.” She nodded, coolly unimpressed by his gallant gesture. “And you must be Signore Cavalanti.”
He smiled and gave a slight flourish with his hand. “Signore Cavalanti,” she repeated, “I’m so sorry to hear about your unusual medical disorder.”
Without raising an eyebrow he smiled and nodded.
“It must be dreadful to be so sensitive to the sunlight.”
“One gets used to it after a while,” he said, shrugging “Well, I hope that the specialist you’ve come to see here in London can cure you of this awful condition.”
“Ahhh... yes,” Niccolo returned. “Actually, I was hoping your father might offer some solution.”
Ursula regarded me curiously. “But surely he’s told you he spends most of his time doing research on Haemophilus influenzae.” From many long hours of assistance in my laboratory she had learned to pronounce the words perfectly.
“Oh, yes,” Niccolo agreed.
“Has he shown you the laboratory yet?”
“No,” he answered with growing interest.
“Father!” Ursula burst out, “I can’t believe you haven’t shown Signore Cavalanti the laboratory.”
“Indeed, Signore Gladstone,” Niccolo added, “I would be very interested in seeing your work.”
They both regarded me excitedly, and I conceded to their wishes. I motioned toward the back door, and gestured past the study. The laboratory was a large circular room in the east tower of the house, and more than half of its walls were covered with windows that normally overlooked the huge astrolabe in the garden. Now, however, all of the shutters had been closed and the twilight passing through the louvers splayed the room in an eerie skeleton of light. A faint rustling sound betrayed the presence of numerous test animals in unseen cages.
I slowly turned on the gas lamps and Niccolo gave an audible gasp. “Scusa,” he apologized, “but I am a being of the senses, and the magic of the flame always entrances me.” He waved his hand at the jungle of glass tubing, distillers, and flasks that covered most of the counters. They captured the flickering light of the gas jets and reflected it like luminous blood through so many scintil-lant emerald veins. After he stepped into the room I noticed that something else had caught his eye. To the right of the door there was a small alcove set off from the laboratory, lined with window seats and green leather cushions. In the very center of the tiny space stood a huge glass cubicle with an ornate brass frame and cupola housing a single brown rabbit.
“Most impressive,” Niccolo said, nodding. “So this is where you do your work on—”
“Haemophilus influenzae I filled in.
“Forgive my naïveté,” he continued as he walked up to the cubicle containing the rabbit. “Understandably I am rather ignorant on diseases. Would you mind explaining to me exactly what that is?”
“There’s not much to say,” I began.
“Don’t let Father fool you,” Ursula said as she crossed the room and pulled out a terrarium containing an Asian viper. Next she plunged her hand beneath the counter and came out with a dangling brown mouse. She casually tossed it into the terrarium and pushed it back against the wall. “Father can go on for hours and hours about Haemophilus influenzae if you trick him into it.”
“That may be true,” I conceded, “but what I meant to say is, of all the things I can tell you about Haemophilus influenzae, I still can’t tell you what causes it.”
“Was Dottore Pasteur wrong?” Niccolo asked.
“Oh, no,” I returned, impressed by the erudition of his question. “As you apparently know, Pasteur discovered that many diseases are caused by microorganisms known as bacteria, and this has enabled us to make stupendous advances. However, even though Haemophilus influenzae possesses many of the properties of a bacteria, no such bacteria has ever been found under the microscope.”
“Another enigma,” he said, smiling.
“Of sorts,” I answered as I tapped the cubicle, and the brown rabbit stirred slightly in its sleep. “But as T. Bryant stated in Practical Surgery, published in 1878, ‘It should never be forgotten that it is the virus that attacks the system’ We don’t know for sure what viruses are, but they behave like microorganisms even though they must be incredibly small—so small, in fact, that they cannot even be seen under the microscope. According to our current way of thinking, Haemophilus influenzae seems to be just such a virus.”
“You see,” Ursula said smartly, “with a little prodding you’ve already got Father convinced he’s in the lecture hall.”
I blushed as I turned to Niccolo, but his eyes were steadied upon the little brown mouse as it pawed furiously at the glass walls of the terrarium. There was an unmistakable expression of horror on his face as the viper languidly tilted its head to one side. Ursula also noticed his horror, and across her face flickered first shock, then regret, and finally a strange sort of smug arrogance. An electricity passed between the two as Niccolo, in turn, watched Ursula’s expressions, and both of them finally tilted their heads, haughtily and knowingly, as if each had discovered something about the other that they neither liked nor felt was worthy of verbal criticism.
“There are several other things Father could
tell you about Haemophilus influenzae,” Ursula continued with a subtle and chiding contempt. “For example, it is infectious and can easily be transferred in test animals by injecting the blood of a stricken animal into the blood of a healthy one. This fact, of course, substantiates the viral explanation. In medical terminology the attacking virus is known as the ‘antigen’ Now, in response to the attacking antigen the lymphatic system produces specific chemical substances known as ‘antibodies’ to combat the particular offender. Do you have that? The invader is the antigen; the defenders are antibodies.”
Niccolo remained expressionless as she removed a white rabbit from a cage beneath the counter. “About a week ago,” she went on, “Father injected this little fellow with blood infected with the influenzae virus. Needless to say, he became quite sick, but his system continued to create antibodies, and he survived the disease. Then an interesting thing happened. The rabbit had so many antibodies in his blood that he developed an immunity to the particular strain of influenzae Father injected him with. If Father were to inject him again he would remain healthy and active, for he is now completely immune.”
“Ursula—” I began, but then quieted. Etiquette demanded that I stop her, but somehow I felt Niccolo would be able to handle himself.
“It’s the same with human beings,” she said, putting the rabbit back into its cage. “Once we have had a particular strain of influenzae we become completely immune to it. The odd thing is that influenzae epidemics continue and people do get influenzae over and over again. Why? Because the virus appears to be very malleable, genetically, and has the ability to undergo what we call an antigenic mutation. In other words, every year or so, it changes its chemical structure slightly, and it becomes increasingly more difficult for our antibodies to ward it off. Even stranger, medical science has discovered that about every ten to twelve years influenzae becomes an entirely new disease. That is why periodically there are worldwide epidemics of the virus.”
“And is your father working on discovering a cure?” Niccolo asked.
“Ultimately,” she returned. “Of course, finding a cure is Father’s long-range goal, but at the moment he is more interested in influenzae’s ability to undergo such radical mutations. Father’s reasoning is that if he can discover what causes these antigenic mutations to occur naturally, perhaps he can find a way to stop them.”
“And what does cause them to occur?”
“No one knows.”
Niccolo regarded her piercingly as if he knew she were lying, and for the first time I saw Ursula’s nerve falter for a brief moment. “Your father does not know what causes them?” he asked with a rise in his voice. Ursula looked at me entreatingly, and I nodded in consent.
“Well...” she said falteringly. “I will tell you a secret. Father doesn’t know what causes the natural antigenic mutations to occur every ten to twelve years, but he has discovered a synthetic way to cause Haemophilus influenzae to mutate in the laboratory.”
“And what good is that?” he asked.
“Not very much good at all,” she replied. “In the test animals he’s caused the disease to mutate dozens, even hundreds of times, each time hoping to glean some clue to its cure from its kaleidoscopic mutations. Usually, however, he just ends up with another typical strain of Haemophilus influenzae.”
“Usually?” he prodded.
Ursula once again glanced in my direction, and I nodded with hesitant approval. I was very covetous of my scientific discoveries because of the unscrupulously competitive world of academia, but I couldn’t fathom that Niccolo would have any reason or motive to steal any information.
“Well, since you are so curious I’ll tell you another secret,” she said as she walked toward the glass cubicle containing the brown rabbit. “In one of the tests Father performed not too long ago, he created a rather unusual strain of influenzae. After he injected it into the blood of a test animal he discovered that, unlike all the previous strains, the organism did not begin to generate antibodies. Thus it had no chance of ever surviving the disease. The virus raged in its system unchallenged, and within two days the animal was dead. He infected another animal, and the same thing happened, and another—”
“And this little rabbit in the glass cage,” Niccolo interrupted. “He has injected it, also, hasn’t he?”
“Why, yes,” Ursula replied, obviously a little surprised by his remark. “How did you know?”
“His heart beats so very fast,” he returned sadly, and pressed his hands against the glass.
“Can you see it beating in its fur?” she asked skeptically.
“I can hear it. I can hear it beating like waves pounding against a rock, only very rapidly.”
She regarded him quizzically. Then her voice became very cold and hard. “He’ll be dead within a day or so. You see, in medical terminology the strain of influenzae Father injected him with totally lacks antigenicity. In other words, the body is completely incapable of combating it and consequently it will always prove fatal.” Niccolo shuddered as he stepped back from the glass. “And what will your father do with—”
“With Camillus influenzae,” she filled in. “Study it. Look at it from every angle in hopes of discovering some new information from our lethal little friend. He’s already published several papers hinting at his discoveries that have caused quite a stir in the medical world, and soon he’s going to publish his complete findings. After all, in another ten to twelve years it will mutate on its own and be lost to science forever.”
I was touched by Ursula’s words, but I did not find it easy listening to someone boast about my findings. I made an excuse to leave for a moment and passed through the door. It was after I was in the hall that I heard Niccolo say something that caused me to pause.
“Your father is very blind.”
I heard Ursula turn abruptly as if to rush to my defense, but Niccolo apparently quieted her with a gesture. “Your father is an honorable man,” he continued, “but the world is filled with dishonorable men. Your father does not see in Camillus influenzae what a weapon of destruction it could become if it fell into the wrong hands.”
“You’re just upset because you think you’re very noble and aristocratic and view death, even in the name of science, as unnecessary and distasteful,” she retorted.
“That isn’t true,” he countered. “I am more familiar than you might suspect with the necessity of death.” With this last remark I grew alarmed and rushed back into the room. Both of them looked at me briefly, wondering why I had been gone only a moment, and then Niccolo once again turned sedately toward Ursula. “What I find distasteful is that you are so dispassionate when death is a necessity. What this tells me about you, signorina, is that you are very unhappy with the world, and you don’t know how to deal with this unhappiness.” Ursula straightened. “You—”
“Hush,” he said and quieted her with a finger. “You needn’t argue, for it is all too clear that it is true. And you needn’t be ashamed, for I, also, am not at all happy with the prejudices and ignorances of the world. But at least I would never treat death so casually There are better ways to deal with one’s unhappiness.”
“And what is your way?” she snapped.
“Me,” Niccolo returned with a humble shrug of his shoulders. “Because I’ve realized that I cannot change this world, I lose myself in my senses. Of course, there are other ways, like your father’s—to lose one’s self in one’s work. To lose one’s self in one’s work and one’s senses are, perhaps, the two most common solutions to the reality of the world. I simply find that my senses give me more solace.”
“What do you mean—?” Ursula began once again. The sudden change in Niccolo’s expression made her realize he was not paying any attention. Instead, he was tilting his head back contemplatively, as if listening to something far away. “What is that?” he questioned as he knitted his brow.
“What is what?” Ursula returned. We both listened very carefully. I could hear nothing.
/> “Squisito!” he cried as he quickly left the room and Ursula and I followed. As we passed the study we became aware of a distant tinkle of music, and we finally realized what Niccolo had been hearing. When we reached the drawing room I pushed the massive walnut doors aside, and there in the darkness was the familiar silhouette seated at the gilt and rosewood pianoforte.
“It is my other daughter, Camille,” I whispered.
“You are blind?” Niccolo stated immediately. She tilted her head in our direction and the silhouette of her tresses tumbled over her tiny shoulder. “No, no... please continue to play,” he implored and turned to me. “She is blind and mentally distant, is she not?” he asked in a hush.
“Why, yes,” I gasped in surprise. “How could you tell?”
“That she is blind is obvious—the way she holds her head, the fact that she plays with such facility in a darkened room. That she is mentally distant is more subtle, but nonetheless apparent. When we entered the room her playing remained unaffected. The playing of any normal pianist would have undergone minute changes due to the fact that they would have been distracted to a very slight degree by the realization of our mere presence. The pressure they applied to the keys would have changed more, or their tempo would have increased by a tiny fraction. But Camille’s playing did not change until I spoke, and this could only be explained by two things. Either she is deaf, but what deaf person at such a tender age can play the piano? Or she was not distracted when we entered the room because her thoughts are not in this world.”
“You are extremely perceptive,” I complimented. “Camille is both blind and mentally distant, as you put it.”
“Is it as a result of her mother’s death by influenzae?” he inquired.
The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life Page 9